Page 19 of Map of Pain
Chapter eight
This was never a game...
Luka
Luka returned to the hospital room, arms laden with supplies. He managed to get everything on his mental checklist: food, clothing, medical necessities. They could leave this place tonight, find somewhere safer for Nick’s recovery.
The heart monitor greeted him first—a steady electronic whine echoing in the empty room. The sound registered before the visual: blankets thrown back, IV line dangling from its pole with a small bloodstain where the needle had been pulled free. Leads disconnected and scattered across wrinkled sheets.
Empty bed.
Luka dropped everything, bags hitting the floor with a crash of medication bottles and packaged food. His chest hollowed out, a physical sensation of lossthatcaught him off guard.
Find him.
The beast’s panic flooded through him before logic could surface. He scanned the room, reading the story written in scattered belongings and rumpled sheets. The IV had beenpulled out rather than disconnected properly—desperation or panic rather than careful planning. Nick’s boots were gone from beside the bed, but the hospital-issue blanket was missing too. Not a calculated escapethen. Something else.
Had Society operatives found them? Had Nick been taken? The thought sent ice through Luka’s veins.
He pressed his palm against the sheets. Still warm. Recent. Minutes, not hours.
Luka closed his eyes, focusing his enhanced senses. Nick’s presence lingered heavily in the air—fever-sweat, antiseptic, the distinctive markersthattasted like copper pennies and burnt vanilla on his tongue. But no other human scents contaminated the space. No gunpowder, no blood beyond the small stain from the IV.
He followed his trail through the air across the room, tracking Nick’s movement. The path wasn’t straight—it wavered, leaving a phantom warmth in the airthatsuggested disorientation. The trail led toward the small bathroom door on the far wall.
Relief flooded through him so fast his knees nearly buckled. Nick hadn’t left.
Luka approached the bathroom door cautiously, knocking gently with two knuckles. No response. He pressed his ear against the door, catching the faint sound of breathing—uneven, distressed, tasting like salt and fear in the recycled air.
Nick lay curled on the cold bathroom tile, knees pulled tightly to his chest, arms wrapped around them in a protective cocoon. The hospital blanket was half-draped across his shoulders, trailing onto the floor. His eyes were closed, but his face showed profound distress—brows drawn together, jaw clenched, lips forming silent words.
His entire body trembled despite being unconscious.
Luka settled onto the floor, calm replacing panic. Nick needed rest, but this terror-filled sleep provided little actual recovery.The cold tile would eventually wake him with muscle cramps and renewed pain. Yet moving him risked triggering worse trauma responses.
Hold him. Contain him. Make him feel safe.
The memory surfaced unbidden of those early days after being turned, when Matteo would shake and cry for hours, terrified of what he’d become. Luka would hold him in silence, applying deep pressure until the shaking stopped. The technique worked when nothing else could.
Deep pressure calmed the nervous system, provided security. Nick needed to feel contained too—protected rather than exposed.
Luka positioned himself behind Nick’s trembling form. With infinite gentleness, he slid one arm beneath Nick’s head, creating a pillow between skull and cold tile. His other arm draped over Nick’s side, applying firm but gentle pressure across his back.
Being this close created unexpected intensity. Nick’s warmth enveloped him—the salt of dried tears, the fading antiseptic, something uniquely Nickthattasted like jasmine and lightning on the air. Each trembling breath moved against Luka’s chest, as Nick’s racing heart beginning to slow, muscle tension easing incrementally beneath his steady pressure.
Safe now.Ours to protect.
His beast purred with satisfaction at providing comfort, completely aligned with his human consciousness for once. The urge to press his lips against Nick’s temple rose with shocking strength—he shoved it down, but the tenderness remained, warm and dangerous in his chest.
Without conscious decision, he began to whistle a bit of music. The tune carried emotion rather than precision, melancholy notes filling the small bathroom with somethingthatfelt like moonlight and memory.
Nick’s shaking eased under the combination of pressure, warmth, and music. His breathing deepened, becoming more regular. The tension in his face eased, nightmare receding as his body recognized safety before his conscious mind could reject it.
Time stretched like warm honey as Luka maintained his protective vigil. He watched Nick’s features in profile—how sleep smoothed away the constant vigilance, revealing someone younger than he appeared awake. Someone whose life should bejustbeginning, not fighting to survive its violent derailment.
A realization settled into his bones with quiet certainty—this was never a game.
This had never been about the hunt, the challenge, the cat-and-mouse dynamic between predator and prey. Nick mattered to him personally. The intensity of his protectiveness had nothing to do with conquest and everything to do with something far more dangerous.
