Page 84 of Rebel
“They did,” he replies. “Now we know where to hit back.”
The first rays of sunlight catch the cracked windshield, setting it ablaze. War isn’t coming anymore. It’s already here.
23
REBEL
The first three days after my capture and escape blur into sleep, stitches, and silence. Carter barely leaves my side.
The Clubhouse smells like antiseptic and oil, and the soft hum of Divine’s computers bleeds through the walls. Every time I wake, Carter is here. Either patching my shoulder, checking my pulse, or just watching me breathe, like if he looks away, I’ll vanish again.
On the second night, I find him half-dozing in the chair beside my bed, his head tipped back, jaw shadowed in exhaustion. The scar across his arm catches the lamplight. He looks like a man who’s been through hell and found a reason to crawl back out just for me.
“Carter,” I whisper.
His eyes open immediately. “You need something?”
“You. In the bed. You look worse than me.”
He hesitates. “You sure?”
“Get in here before I change my mind.”
He exhales, the sound almost a laugh, and slips under the blanket beside me. The warmth between us is quiet and unspoken. My hand finds his chest, fingers brushing the rough edge of a bandage. His heart beats steady under my palm. Proof that after everything, he’s still here.
We don’t talk at first. Just breathe.
Then, softly, he says, “You scared the hell out of me.”
“I scare everyone eventually.”
“Not like that.” He turns his head, eyes searching mine. “I thought I lost you, Rebel. That kind of fear… It’s worse than bleeding.”
Something in his voice cracks me open. I press my forehead to his shoulder. “I don’t do good with being saved.”
“I didn’t save you,” he murmurs. “You survived. I just caught the echo.”
The words hang between us, heavy and beautiful.
I tilt his face toward mine. “You’re too good at this.”
“Too good at what?”
“Making me feel things I’ve buried under bullets and ledgers.”
He smirks, soft and broken. “Guess I’ll keep digging.”
When he kisses me, it’s slow. It’s not about survival this time, but a promise. His hands are gentle, reverent, tracing along my scars like they’re scripture. The room fades away until it’s just us, the heartbeat between breaths, the taste of salt and safety.
When he pulls back, his voice goes low. “I love you, Rebel Slade.”
The words stop me cold. Not because I don’t feel them, but because I do. Because I’ve been afraid to.
“Say it again,” I whisper.
“I love you.”
I nod once, my throat tight. “Then you should know you’re stuck with me, because I love you too.”
