137: Maniac

137: Maniac
RUE

Of course he showed up looking like death. Fever sweat, trembling hands, and the faintest wince every time he moved. Adrian Romano, the walking hazard, had dragged himself out into the night for me.

And I hated how much I loved it.

He wanted to worship me. Wow.

I bet not even my dad said that to my mum.

My heart was racing with excitement. Still, I refused to let it show.

"You're responsible for your own feelings, you know," I said dryly, tugging the plastic bag out of his shaky grip. "It's not my job to babysit your obsession."

It was a fucking lie. But who's counting?

He smiled faintly, delirious. "Doesn't matter."

And that was it. That was the kill shot. He didn't even need a gun.

The bastard had a fever, his entire body shaking like he'd walked through a blizzard, and all I could think was, "God, I'm a sucker for you."

"You're a disaster," I muttered, looping his arm around my shoulders when his knees buckled again. "A bleeding, coughing, fever-ridden disaster. Congratulations, you've outdone yourself."

His grip tightened, stubborn as always. "Still came for you."

I hated him for saying that. Hated him for meaning it. Hated that it made my knees weak when he was the one about to collapse.

His prosthetic eye caught the streetlight, gleaming, while the green one burned fever-bright, restless even as his body trembled.

By the time I shoved him into the passenger seat of my car, my own heart was racing. He sagged against the leather, his eyes half-closed, sweat dampening his long dark hair.

I yanked a blanket from the backseat and spread it around his shoulders, tucking it tighter than necessary just to keep my hands busy. His lashes fluttered, and his lips quirked into the faintest smile.

"Don't get comfortable," I snapped, adjusting the blanket around his chest. "I'm not your nurse. I'm going to grab supplies and drugs before you bleed out in my car. Try not to die before I get back."

He let out a half chuckle and a half cough, the sound rattling his ribs. His head lolled against the seat, and for a terrifying moment I thought he'd passed out.

My throat tightened, my heart stupidly breaking at how fragile he looked.

I jerked back before I could give myself away.

"You're a mess," I whispered, more to myself than him. "And I'm worse for letting you do this to me."

His lips moved faintly, almost soundless. "Worth it."

I clenched my fists, turned on my heel, and strode towards the pharmacy down the block, my mask slipping back into place.

...

I grabbed a basket, muttering under my breath, "Supplies, drugs, water. Not feelings."

First stop: antibiotics, painkillers, and fever reducers. I scanned the labels, tossing boxes into the basket as if I'd done this a hundred times. (Which I hadn't. I wasn't that kind of caretaker. Normally I'd let people rot. He wasn't people.)

Second stop: gauze, antiseptic wipes, and fresh bandages. I paused at the surgical tape, staring too long before throwing in three rolls.

My basket was half full when I spotted the juice aisle.

I stood there a good ten seconds, glaring at the empty shelf. Right. My juice. Bought out by the fever-ridden psycho currently trying not to bleed on my leather seats.

I rolled my eyes so hard it almost hurt. "Unbelievable. He's dying and still thinks about hoarding passion fruit juice for me. Maniac."

I grabbed bottled water instead, stuffed three into the basket, and headed for the counter.

The cashier, a kid barely old enough to shave, glanced from the mountain of medical supplies to me. His eyebrows rose. "Uh... rough night?"

"Something like that," I deadpanned.

He scanned a box of fever reducers, glanced again, and smirked. "Boyfriend sick?"

I froze. My mouth said, "No."

My pulse screamed, 'Yes.'

The cashier chuckled as if he'd glimpsed the truth hidden in my lie. "Well, whoever he is... he's lucky. Not many people come in here by this time, buying the entire pharmacy aisle for someone else."

I gave him my best icy smile. "Lucky isn't the word I'd use."

But my throat was tight as I paid for the supplies, grabbed the bag, and stormed out.

Because if he was lucky, then I was cursed. Cursed to want him. To crave him. To feel more alive holding him in my arms.

And the worst part?

I wasn't sure I wanted the cure.

....

"Congratulations," I muttered, kicking the door to Adrian's private suite shut behind us, "you've successfully turned me into your personal paramedic. Do you feel special?"

Adrian slumped onto the edge of the massive bed, his lips curving faintly.

"Always."

God, he was infuriating.

I set the pharmacy bag on the nightstand and turned back to him, snapping open the gauze and antiseptic.

"Shirt off."

He blinked sluggishly as if he hadn't heard me.

"Don't make me repeat myself, Romano." My voice was sharp, my hands not nearly as steady as I wanted them to be.

His mouth twitched. "Bossy."

But he let me tug the blanket off, my fingers working the buttons of his black dress shirt. My sarcasm was the only thing keeping me sane as I peeled the fabric away from his shoulders.

And then I saw them.

I'd felt them before. In the dark, my hands had mapped his body, catching on raised skin, ridges, and valleys that weren't supposed to be there.

I'd known there were scars...how could I not? I'd traced them with my fingertips when he had me beneath him.

But knowing wasn't the same as seeing.

The lamplight was unforgiving. It exposed everything.

Cigarette burns marred his collarbone. Scabbed-over cuts laddered his ribs. White lines slashed across his torso and down his sides. Some of which were shallow, some so deep they must have taken months to heal. Most of them were hidden by the tattoos on his skin.

He struggled to take his shirt off the rest of the way, and the moment he twisted, his abs flexing, I saw it.

His back... Shit. His back looked like someone had carved through him with a blade just to see how much he could take.

I bristled, fury boiling in my blood. My chest felt too tight, my pulse too loud.

"Who," I whispered, "did this to you?"

His one green eye met mine, half-lidded from fever but steady.

"Rue..." His voice was hoarse and slightly teasing. “Don't act surprised. You already knew."

"I felt them," I snapped, my hands curling into fists.

"Not this. Not—" My voice cracked, which pissed me off even more. But I forced it to stay steady. "Not the full damn map of hell carved into your body."

He smirked faintly, "They're just scars. Souvenirs. Scars shouldn’t scare you, Ruin. You already know what kind of monster I am."

I snapped my gaze up to his in disbelief. "Monster? Don't you dare. Whoever did this...whoever thought they could mark you like this...they're the monsters. You hear me?"

For once, Adrian didn't have a comeback. He just stared at me, his chest heaving under my touch.

And I realized...God help me—that I wanted blood. Names. A fucking hit list.

Still, I forced myself to focus as I worked. I swabbed antiseptic across his stitched side, wrapping gauze around his ribs. He hissed, his jaw clenched, but he didn't push me away.

"You're impossible," I muttered, tearing surgical tape with my teeth. "Dragging yourself out in this state. You should be unconscious, not—" My throat tightened.

He smirked faintly, his lips dry. "You like it, though. Taking care of me."

I rolled my eyes, but I still held out two pills and a glass of water. "Open."

He did, obediently. And it was annoying how it made my pulse race.

Once he swallowed, I pressed a cool cloth to his burning temples. My thumb brushed the damp strands of his hair from his forehead, marveling at the softness.

"Adrian..." I whispered.

His green eye cracked open, hazy but sharp enough to pin me down. "You want to know, don't you? About the scars."

I stiffened. "Yes."

He exhaled shakily. "I was twenty. They took me. They were my father’s rivals, old enemies...it didn't matter. They wanted leverage, ransom, and blood. My father... he was manipulated into thinking it was nothing. Claudia kept him distracted. She told him I was reckless, that I'd gotten myself into trouble. She made sure he focused on her son instead."

My chest hollowed out. "So you...what—"

"I nearly died," he admitted quietly. "Three months locked in hell. I came back in pieces." His voice cracked. "And no one in my family even noticed that I was gone."

My nails dug into the damp cloth as I pressed it harder to his temple. "They noticed," I bit out. "They just didn't care."

He laughed bitterly, coughing through it. "You sound more furious than I am."

I leaned closer, my face inches from his, and whispered, "Because I am."

The room went quiet, his gaze burning mine alive.

And suddenly, a sharp knock rattled the door.

I froze as Adrian tensed.

Then I rose to my feet and headed to the door, yanking it open with my other hand already reaching for my blade.

And there she was.

Perfect hair. Designer coat. Eyes widening in surprise. Adrian's so-called fiancée.

"Who the hell are you?" she demanded, her eyes burning with fury.