Page 24 of Born into Darkness

“Don’t you dare,” he whispers. “Don’t risk yourself for me.”

“You need to rest,” I remind him. “Stop worrying.”

I know he wants to argue but lacks the strength to do so. My fingers run over his forehead, brushing back the hair that’s fallen. His skin is burning up, and I’m both terrified and desperate to see what his hand looks like. It looked horrible before the lights went out, and I can only imagine how much worse it’s gotten.

While we wait for the door to open again, I let go of him long enough to blindly feel my way back to where I think our last bottle of water is. My hands scrape along the rough concrete as it digs into my knees. My frustration at not being able to see is enough to make me want to scream. I bite my lip to hold it in, knowing Max needs me to be strong, and slowly run my hands along the floor again, going over the same space that I’m pretty sure I’ve hit twice already. When my fingers finally hit the plastic bottle, I sigh with relief and scoot back over to where I think Max is.

It takes me a few seconds to find him, but as soon as I do, I lift his head and put my leg under him so he’s tilted up enough to take a drink. Uncapping the bottle, I use my fingers to guide it to his mouth. He starts to shake his head, and I know he’s going to argue that I need to drink first.

“You first,” I tell him. “I’ll drink after you.”

Using his left hand, he grabs onto the bottle and takes a drink. I listen to his swallows, and he pushes it away after only three.

“You need more,” I say, trying to bring it back to his lips.

“I’m not taking all of it.”

“Just drink a bit more. There’s no way that was half the bottle.” When he doesn’t reach for it, I say, “Please, Max.”

He relents and drinks some more before pushing it away and insisting I have the rest. I tell him I will, but all I do is take a small sip and then set it aside, saving the last half for him. The pain is too intense for him to notice that I’m not still drinking.

Keeping his head in my lap, I stroke his hair and tell him stories about growing up near the ocean. I tell him about fishing with my brothers and the bad storm we once got caught in. He doesn’t say anything, but anytime I stop talking, he squeezes my hand, urging me to keep going, so I do. I talk for what feels like hours, until my throat is raw and I’m tempted to take another drink of water, but then the door opens and we’re blinded by the light.

Slowly peeling my eyes open, I get my first look at Max’s hand and then immediately wish I hadn’t. It looks awful, a thousand times worse than I’d imagined, and before he can look at it, I cup his cheek and lean closer. When he slowly blinks his eyes open, I make sure that my face is the only thing he can see.

“Don’t look,” I whisper. “You don’t need to see it.”

“Talia,” he starts to say, but I shake my head.

“Max, I need you to trust me on this.”

He wants to argue, I can see it so clearly in his eyes, but I think deep down he knows I’m right. I’m about to let out a sigh of relief when I feel him relax, but it gets trapped in my throat when I hear footsteps approaching. I don’t even get a chance to turn my head to see who it is before a hand roughly grips my hair, flinging me back so I’m no longer hiding his hand from view.

The pained moan that comes from Max when he sees his mangled hand is enough to steal the breath from my lungs. It’s not the sound of someone who’s just in physical pain, although the agony of it must be unbearable at this point—it’s the sound of a man who’s just had a piece of his soul ripped from his chest. For anyone else, this would be horrific, but it would heal and it’d be an injury that would eventually turn into nothing more than a minor annoyance and maybe early-onset arthritis. But for Max, this is his worst fear come to life. They didn’t just ruin his hand—they destroyed a part of him that he might not ever be able to get back.

Miguel laughs, pulling my attention away from Max, and I swear if I had anything that could be used as a weapon, I would kill this asshole without a second thought.

“Get away from him!” I yell. His eyes narrow at me, but I’m past the point of worrying about my own ass right now. “You fucking jackass, don’t you dare try and touch him!”

He rears back like he’s going to slap me, but when Mateo shouts his name, he stops mid-strike. The pure hate radiating off him has me almost curling in on myself, but I force myself to not look away. There’s a promise in that look, and he knows I see it—a promise that Mateo won’t always be around to keep him in line. One day it’ll just be him walking through that door, and he’s going to make sure I regret mouthing off to him.

Right now, he can’t hurt us, though, and that’s all I can allow myself to worry about. I keep my body hunched over Max, refusing to let this bastard near him. Miguel gives me one last furious look before turning his back on us and leaving the room.

Max whispers my name, and I quickly bring my lips to his forehead. “I swear it’s going to be okay,” I say, hoping like hell it’s not a lie. “It just looks so bad because we haven’t been able to stop the swelling.”

He lets out a soft huff of air, and I know it’s his way of calling me on my bullshit. The truth is I have no idea what I’m saying. His hand is swollen up to more than twice its size, it’s a dark shade of red, and the swelling extends down his forearm. His beautiful, long fingers are misshapen and bent at odd angles, and I’m having a hard time believing it can be fixed.

Mateo steps closer. He’s carrying our food and more water, but the thought of eating just makes me feel like I’m going to be sick. He sets it all down by my feet and leans closer, reaching for Max’s hand.

Max groans and keeps his hand cradled against his chest. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Mateo stops reaching for him and says, “I’m just checking to see how bad it is.”

“Look at it,” Max growls. “It’s fucking ruined.”

Mateo sighs and runs his eyes over Max. It’s a detached perusal, like he’s quickly sizing up all his injuries and calculating how bad it is. Whatever conclusion he comes to, he keeps it from affecting his expression. I’m not sure if it’s because it’s so bad and he’s worried I’ll get hysterical or because it’s not nearly as bad as I think it is. I’m guessing it’s the former, but desperately hoping it’s the latter.

“Will your family come for you?”

---