Page 28 of Scarlet Wars
I sat down on the bed beside her, the mattress dipping under my weight. I let my gaze drift over her face, pale, fragile, but still so damn beautiful it hurt to look at her.
“I would’ve come sooner, but your boyfriend’s one hell of a possessive ass,” I muttered, the frustration seeping through my words. “I hope you appreciate me not killing him, because right now, you’re the only reason that motherfucker is still breathing.”
Shifting slightly, I dropped my tone, my gaze still fixed on her. “So you gotta wake up, Nightcrawler, and stop me from doing something we’ll both regret.”
Nothing.
I couldn’t stop my eyes from tracing her features. Her skin, her lips, her hair. Even now, she stunned me to my core. The urge to sweep the stray hairs off her forehead and kiss her was so overwhelming, I almost did. The fact James could touch her like that, sent a jolt of jealousy through me so sharp, it was physically painful.
But I forced myself to stay still, keeping that distance. It wasn’t my place to close.
Hillary had assured me Emma was essentially fine. She’d healed her from all the physical damage, but nothing could touch the psychological scars of what she’d endured.
After learning about what happened at her parents’ house, it made sense why Emma wouldn’t want to wake up.
I leaned in a little closer, lowering my voice again. “I know you don’t want to feel. Every time emotions get too heavy, you shut down and hide behind that icy mask of yours. I’m guessing right now, you’re choosing to stay asleep, afraid of feeling whatever’s waiting for you on the other side. But, Emma,” I murmured softly, “I promise, you can handle this.”
Still nothing. What the hell did I expect? She’d hear me and magically wake up? That shit only happened in those sappy human movies she’d made me watch.
I turned to the window as a familiar ache twisted deep inside me. She’d just lost her parents. I knew exactly how trauma could change a person.
“You’re probably terrified of the grief waiting for you,” I continued in barely more than a whisper. “It feels like too much, as if you won’t survive it. As if it’ll swallow you whole if you let it in. But I’ve never met anyone as strong as you, and I swear on my life, Emma, youwillsurvive this.”
My attention flicked back to her still form, willing her to hear me. “You just have to choose to survive it. Choose to live. Choose to…”
The words trailed off, and I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the lump in my throat, as I waited, hoping for some sign she’d heard me, that she was still in there fighting.
But there was nothing. No flicker of her eyelids, no movement of her hand. Only the steady rise and fall of her chest.
Unable to stop myself, I softly brought her hand to my mouth, brushing my lips over her knuckles. The warmth of her skin grounded me in a way I didn’t deserve. The need to be close to her despite everything was almost crushing.
I stood abruptly, then crossed the room in quick strides, and stopped at the window, before my hands gripped the sill so tight my knuckles turned white. I could feel it, the slip. The tight control I’d been holding on to was fraying fast.
Distance. I needed more distance. And I needed to remember she wasn’t mine to care for. She belonged to that asshole, who I’d gladly tear apart if he turned out to be anything less than worthy of her.
The memory of my lips on hers, breathing life back into her lungs at Hunza, ripped through me so violently I nearly turned around to do it all over again.
My hands tightened even more around the windowsill. Every muscle in my body was strung tight, ready to snap.
And then I heard it: a soft sound, barely more than a whisper.
I spun around, my eyes snapping to the bed, hardly able to believe what I was seeing.
She stirred.
Her fingers twitched, the smallest movement, and then, slowly, her eyelids fluttered open.
My heart hammered against my chest. Before I even realized it, I was at her side, my pulse racing.
“Emma,” I whispered trembling with barely contained urgency. She blinked sluggishly, unfocused, her lips parting as though she was struggling to remember how to breathe.
I sat down next to her. “Thompson,” I said again, more insistent, my hand steady as I reached out, grabbing hers. She was here, she was waking up, and I had to keep her with me.
My haze shot out and I quickly translated a glass of water on her bedstand.
Her brow furrowed, her eyelids still fluttering like she was fighting her way through a fog, every small movement costing her. I tightened my grip on her hand, desperate to ground her, desperate to keep her tethered to the moment.
Her focus finally locked on me, confusion clouding her expression, pain lingering beneath the surface. She swallowed, her throat working to form words that wouldn’t come, lips parting with only a faint, raspy breath escaping. I could see the effort, the struggle in every labored motion.
