Page 63 of Whatever Wakes
God, I want to tell him I love him too. Because I do, I realize.
More than fucking anything.
Then the world goes dark again.
When I finally wake fully, I’m not on the boat anymore.
It’s warm.
I am warmer than I have been in a week, and there is the faint smell of cedar and something distinctly masculine. It curls around me, familiar and grounding. I’m lying on a bed, wrapped in heavy blankets, the fabric soft against my skin. The air is still, comforting, a stark contrast to the relentless cold on the island.
The scent is familiar, soothing, and it hits me like a wave: Ezra. This is his bed.
Not the bed we shared on the island, but his bed.
The realization sinks in slowly, each detail pulling me further into awareness. I shift slightly, my body aching but alive, the warmth of the blankets pressing in around me. My fingers brush against the thick fabric, and for once in days, I don’t feel the chill of the wind cutting through me.
I glance around the room, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. The fireplace is glowing faintly, the embers crackling in a way that feels almost hypnotic. The soft hum of an IV pump fills the silence, and I follow the thin tubing to where it disappears into the crook of my arm.
A woman sits in the corner, her back straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She looks calm, professional, her dark hair pulled into a tight braid. There’s something composed about her, something deliberate in the way she holds herself, as if she’s done this a thousand times before.
Ezra is by my side, perched on the edge of the bed. His shirt is rolled up, his arm bandaged but still bloody—from what, I don’t know—and his face is a storm of exhaustion and relief. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, shadows etched deep beneath his eyes, his defined features softened by something unspoken.
“Ezra?” My voice is hoarse, barely a whisper.
His eyes are locked on mine. “Thank god you’re awake,” he says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. There’s something raw in the way he looks at me, something unguarded.
“What… happened?” I manage, my throat dry and scratchy.
He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You fell off the pier. I pulled you out, but the cold… it was bad, Kruz. You were hypothermic.” His voice tightens, his jaw clenching. “And then there was the boat. I had to deal with them before I could get you back here.”
I blink at him, trying to make sense of his words. My memories are jagged, pieces of a puzzle that don’t quite fit together. The cold, the water swallowing me whole, exhaustion dragging me under. The gunfire. The bodies.
“I fell off the pier?”
His lips twitch into the faintest of smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I fucking told you,” he says matter-of-factly.
His body wraps around mine, solid and warm and grounding, and I realize that it’s all okay now.
Except… It’s not.
“But… how is it safe for me to be here?” I ask, my eyes flicking to the woman in the corner.
“She’s Assembly,” Ezra says, following my gaze. “Our medic. But she’s one of the good ones. Trusted.”
I give him a dull look.
He sighs and adds, “By me.”
The woman inclines her head slightly, her expression soft and motherly, though I don’t trust it. Not yet.
I glance back at him, a million questions swirling in my mind. How can he trust her? How can I trust her? And what does he mean by ‘one of the good ones’? the Assembly isn’t exactly known for their kindness.
And why does he look like he’s been fighting a war on his own?
“You’re safe,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. His hand brushes against mine, warm and steady and reassuring. “I made sure of it.”
He’s done so much, sacrificed so much, and I don’t even know where to begin.
