Page 4 of Burned By Sin
“Rhys. I thought…I thought that you…” My throat scrapes, words catching as his fingers flex against my face, urging me to meet the full brunt of his rage.
“You assumed I went back on our agreement.” His stare doesn’t waver, locked on me with such desperation, it nearly knocks the wind from my lungs. “I don’t make promises, but I intended to keep that one. For you.”
I can’t quite catch the sob that escapes me, the entire world being ripped out from beneath us. Even now, I still believe Rhys played a part in the events of that day. He made the deal, he’s the reason Clay isn’t here. In whatever way, he deserves to suffer for that, but I’m not faultless. It was me who created the barrier between us, who threw the first shot that brought this all crashing down. Where we could have come together, strong and united, we fell apart. I ripped us apart.
Apologies are due, but I need to be careful with Rhys. His ego isn’t so easily stroked, and his defenses are higher than ever.
“Yet here you are,” I whimper. Releasing my face, his hands drop to my neck, thumbs brushing my throat as our foreheads touch.
“Yet here I am, begging you to finally remove the blade and let me bleed out.”
My fingers shake as I peel myself from him to unhook the button on my jeans, fumbling to strip down to my underwear, because for the first time in weeks I can feel everything I’ve been stuffing down, and the pressure is too much to bear anymore. Shifting my phone onto the bedside table, I clumsily climb beneath the sheets. Rhys welcomes me in, his warmth seeping into places long since forgotten.
He doesn’t claim me with roughness. Instead, his thumbs trace tiny circles along my spine that are laced with regret, his forehead seeking out mine until the tremor in his hands slows and I can hear a new, quieter rhythm beneath the hammering of my pulse. When he leans in, it’s gentle at first, lips barely grazing mine as though testing whether the world still exists. I should put a stop to this, should continue denying myself of these pleasures that teeter the edge between heavenly and sinful. Rhys is a flame that I can’t stop touching, testing how long it takes until I burn. And because of me, that flame nearly went out.
I meet him halfway, turning the kiss into a hunger that is heavy with grief, as if every missed chance and stupid fight and ugly word is dissolving between our mouths. I let myself sink into it, let the anger I’d clung to like armor fall away piece by piece. There is something offensive and beautiful about two broken people finding the same patch ofwarmth. I raise my hands up to his jaw and guide him back to me, press the pad of my thumb across the faint scar beside his ear until he inhales and relaxes.
For the first time since the gif, since the locker, since we became fractured from within, my walls start to crack. I lay my vulnerability bare for Rhys to do whatever he wants with it. That’s my apology. To forgive, to nurture or to break me in the same way I wronged him, that’s his choice now.
Breathless, we lay, simply clinging to each other and sharing the tiny space we’ve carved out for ourselves. A place without judgement, without the need to explain what this is. It just is.
Sleep doesn’t come. Addy arrives home late, the outline of her head bobbing to music in her headphones. If she notices the extra body or expensive cologne contaminating our shared space, she doesn’t make it obvious, flopping into bed and doom scrolling until she passes out.
Rhys’ lips trace my cheek, his nose following my jawline, his hands following a slow and sensual path across my body. Eventually, when the heater clicks off and the first rays of morning start to bleed through the curtains, he shifts us, curling against my back with his chin tucked into the hollow of my shoulder. His arm over my waist grows heavy, his breathing fanning my hair. Held in his embrace, I can almost believe we might survive what we have done to each other, but we’re not the only ones who need to heal and this isn’t the only relationship I need to fix.
Chapter Three
“Hey, Kellyanne, you got the list of tonight’s inmates?” I grumble, arriving at the reception desk.
“Don’t let Dr. Hollister hear you say that. He takes great pride in this hospital.” Kellyanne cocks a brow and leans over the desk she’s manning. Her dark eyes skim over the length of me before settling back on my face with a knowing smile. I know the receptionists talk. Despite my lack of conversational skills, they’ve taken a particular interest in commenting on my appearance, questioning my jagged past and guessing what I’m running from. Rumor also has it there’s a wager running for who on the roster can bed me first. I scoffed when the security guard told me, and quickly became horrified to find his own name was on that list.
Turning to leave, Kellyanne rushes around the desk in a bid to hold my attention.
“Oh, before you go,” the nurse chuckles to herself, standing with her hip popped and a finger twirling in her hair. “Mrs. Mitcham has been eagerly awaiting your next shift. She’ll possibly throw herself out of bed so you’ll have to lift her again.” At the mental image of Mrs. Mitcham’s tight smile against her leathery skin, I grimace.
“Thanks for the heads up,” I say dryly. Note to self, start my round on the far side of the building and hope Mrs. Mitcham is asleep by the time I circle back. She’s sweet enough, really, always offering me a boiled sweet each time I tuck her back into bed. It can happen multiple times a night, though somehow never when the others cover my round. Rumor has it she was a hooker back in the day, a suspicion I can confirm by the way I find her face down, ass up, whenever she’s sprawled across the floor.Shudder.
I shouldn’t complain. The medical director, Dr. Hollister, took one look at me sleeping in a bus shelter and hired me on the spot because of my build. He even found me a room to rent down the road and gave me a two-week advance to get me on my feet. I don’t usually accept charity and couldn’t help being suspicious of his generosity, but a favor I can work off is different. This is a fresh start. Honest, hard work for a decent man who’s shown me respect. One day, I’ll be in the position to help someone in need too.
And yes, I could have fleeced Wavershit for all he’s worth, finding myself a luxury apartment just to spite him. It’s the least I deserve after the hell he’s put me through, and that was before Harper appeared on the scene. I refuse to think of her, of what they might be doing. If she’s safe with him, if he’s protecting her with the same vigor as I would. She’s not mine to protect anymore. She was never mine in the first place.
Alas, my mom’s old debts are cleared, her care and accommodation is covered for the next five years, and I’m making an honest living. Clipboard in hand, I bid Kellyanne goodnight and stroll toward Falcon Ward. Running a hand over my beanie, I breathe in the sharp chemical tang of disinfectant and push down the pang of longing I never thought I’d feel for one of Peterson’s classes. Every time I try to shove the thought aside, it comes back harder, forcing me to press a fist against my chest through the thin cotton of my T-shirt.
Black cargo trousers hang heavy on my legs above sturdy boots, abaton and can of pepper spray clipped to my belt. Overkill for a so-called “night porter,” if you ask me. But with this shiny new hospital planted right in the middle of Detroit’s most dangerous neighborhood, I suppose it’s necessary.
As expected from glancing at the list, around half of the new patients in tonight have obtained gun shots or knife wounds and I find myself wondering yet again if I’m here to keep the gang members out or so-called victims in. A concept I struggled with at first, my fingers itching to protect the truly vulnerable and throw the troublemakers out on their injured asses. But as Jaye Dean, one of the matrons explained, the goal here is to keep the violence at bay long enough for the sick to get better, and whatever happens once they leave isn’t our concern.
Rounding corners from one empty hallway to the next, I flick various switches for the lights to dim and allow those in both communal and private rooms a short reprieve to sleep. Occasionally, a nurse will pass between the rooms with a wheeled trolley, checking heart rates and administering timed medications. There’s an eerie silence that oddly soothes me, knowing those in pain are gifted a brief rest from the real world. Pain and deceit festers outside these walls, curling around the bricks and rasping at the windows.
A harsh, hacking cough drags my attention to a room set back from the rest. The door is slightly ajar with a lamp on inside, shadows moving across the walls. The name on my clipboard for room sixteen reads Anastasia Grant, suffering from bronchitis. Low muttering meets my ears as I inch forward, curiosity leading me onwards. Through the gap in the door, my eyes fall on a stick of a woman enveloped in a curtain of her black hair. Despite simultaneously sweating and shivering, it’s not her holding my attention but the two young boys curling into her sides. Their shaggy hair and scruffy faces drive a spear through my heart, knocking the breath out of me as I turn away.
A familiar tightness crushes my chest, the same rising panic that I’ve been battling during every shift. I can’t save them all. I can’t saveanyone. My role is to protect the walls of this hospital, to sleep well and keep in shape, only to come back and do it all again. That’s all.
Stepping back into the corridor, a metal trolley crashes into my shin and I quickly reach out to steady the wide-eyed nurse stumbling behind. Her hands have latched onto my forearms, the small watch clinging onto her blue tunic swinging violently as she breathes out a shaky laugh. But no humor can pass my lips.
“Do you know what the story in there is?” I nod my head back to the way I came, withdrawing my arms when she doesn’t immediately let go. Her brown eyes flick beyond me and a small frown pulls at her mouth.
“Single mom,” she murmurs. “The hospital only provides meals for her, but she gives the food to her sons, so she’ll never have the strength to get better.” With a small shake of her auburn-covered head, she steers the trolley around me and continues her round. I swallow thickly to sink the knot stuck in my throat and stroll into the empty waiting room opposite. I almost stumble, the collapse of my chest threatening to overwhelm me.
