Page 115 of Infamous
He wants to fix it, I can tell. But this isn’t something he can fix for me. This is the kind of wound that never stops bleeding.
My hands tremble. I grab the sheets, pull them up over myself like armor. My body feels foreign. Violated. Hollow.
Jude finally says, “You didn’t do this to yourself, Nadia.”
“Yes,” I choke out, “I did. Don’t you get it? I thought I was ending his control. I thought I was saving myself. But I didn’t escape him. I became him. I hurt myself worse than he ever could.”
The tears come harder now - sharp, endless, cruel.
He doesn’t argue. He just stands there, swallowing hard, his throat working like he’s trying not to fall apart.
When he finally moves closer, he does it slow, like approaching a wounded animal. His voice is hoarse. “You think I don’t understand? Don’t you dare hate yourself.”
I turn away from him. I can’t bear it. The kindness. The ache in his voice. It feels worse than the pain.
The machine beside me keeps its rhythm - steady, unfeeling, relentless.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Each one reminds me I’m still here. Still breathing in a body I no longer recognize. And the cruelest part?
The world keeps moving. The sun will rise. The city will hum. And I’ll have to live in this skin, in this aftermath, pretending survival was worth the cost.
But right now, as Jude sinks into the chair beside me, his hand hovering just above mine, I can’t feel anything except the weight of everything I’ve lost.
And the unbearable truth that I did it to myself.
66
LUCIAN
Mason’s words are still ringing in my head.
They sound too reasonable, too calm - the kind of logic only a man with nothing to lose can manage.
“She needs round-the-clock care, Jude. She’s not just detoxing - she’s falling apart. You can’t fix this on your own.”
I don’t answer him. I just stare at Nadia through the glass.
She’s curled on the hospital bed, knees drawn up, IV lines trembling with her shivers. Her hair sticks to her damp forehead. Her lips move soundlessly, whispering ghosts I can’t chase.
She hasn’t eaten in days. She barely sleeps. Sometimes she screams in her dreams, clawing at her stomach until the nurses have to sedate her. And every time she cries, it feels like I’m being ripped open from the inside out.
“I know a clinic,” Mason says. “Private. Quiet. The kind of place where no one will ask questions. They’ll detox her properly, keep her safe, get her head straight again.”
“No.” My voice sounds like gravel. “She stays with me.”
He exhales, exasperated. “You’re too close to it, Jude. You’reher trigger. Every time she looks at you, she remembers everything she’s trying to forget.”
“Sheneedsme,” I snap.
He steps closer, eyes steady. “And maybe that’s the problem.”
I hate him for saying it. Mostly because it’s true.
