Page 36 of Requiem
I don’t look at her. I don’t take my eyes off the screen. “If he—”
“Wait,” she repeats, firmer this time.
I grit my teeth, forcing myself to stay where I am.
On the monitor, Jude pushes himself up slightly, his movements jerky and weird. His lips move slowly.
Emma steps closer. Too close for my fucking comfort.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath.
But she doesn’t stop. No. Now, she sits on the edge of the goddamn bed. My heart slams against my ribs so hard that it might actually break out my chest.
What are you doing?What the fuck are you doing?
Jude’s eyes drop to the bed when she settles, his shoulders tight and hands clamped shut in his lap. My muscles are coiling, ready to move. Rafe remains as still as a statue, listening through the door. He’s relaxed, for now.
Unless it gets bad. Well, define bad. Because from where I’m standing, this already feels like a nightmare waiting to happen. He looks like he could pounce any moment and snap her fucking neck. If he actually did manage to hurt her, we’d never get him back. Because once he realized what he’d done, he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger next time. I know him.
“She’s talking to him,” Heather says quietly.
“I know,” I snap, more sharply than I mean to. I drag a hand down my face, exhaling hard through my nose. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she murmurs.
But neither of us relaxes, because on the screen, Jude’s expression shifts again. It’s subtle and easy to miss if you’re not looking for it. But I am. Like a hawk. I've watched him so much over the years, making sure his chest didn't stop moving when he injected too much. Studying his micro-movements is second nature to me.
His brow furrows slightly, and his head tilts just a fraction. He’s still not making direct eye contact with Emma, which is good. It’s shitty, because he can’t trust himself to. But aware enough to know he can't.
I glance back toward the closed door. Toward the room where my best friend is still trapped inside his own head. “When she’s done, I’m going back in.”
“Why?” Heather asks. “I imagine he’s had enough.”
“He’s in worse shape because of the withdrawals.” I point to the screen. “It’s adding to his agitation. Since he’s in a little better of a headspace than the last time I was in there alone with him, I might be able to give him Suboxone.”
She bites her lip. “Okay. I think that’s wise, Micah.”
***
When I walk back in, he’s twisted into himself, one arm wrapped tight around his stomach again. It’s almost like he’s trying to keep somethingfrom ripping out of him. He’s shaking with violent tremors that move through his entire body in waves.
“Jesus,” I mutter to myself.
His head snaps toward me.
Wrong move.
His expression shifts instantly, eyes going wild. “Get the fuck out, Micah. I can’t take this anymore. Leave me alone.”
I close the door behind me anyway. “No,” I say, calm. “Not happening, man.”
“I said—” His voice cracks hard, breaking apart mid-sentence as his body jerks. He curls tighter, a strangled sound ripping out of his throat. “Get out.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
His head lifts again, slower this time, his eyes locking onto me like I just said the worst possible thing I could say. “I don’tneedyou,” he spits, even as his hand claws into the sheets. His body folds in on itself again, a groan dragging out of him that hurts to hear.
I move. Abrupt at first because all I want to do is fucking hold him. But I slow my steps immediately before he can notice. “I brought you water,” I say, setting the bottle down on the edge of the bed within his reach. “And this—” I hold up the Suboxone. “Same as before.”
