Chapter 25 Pain and Self Blame
Aiyana’s P.O.V
Jerome slept for twelve hours straight.
It was the first time I had ever seen him unconscious—his body slack, jaw unclenched, no storm behind his eyes. He wasn’t the Black Beast, or the king of the underworld, or the man who executed with a look. He was just a man. A wounded one.
His knuckles were shredded, bruises blooming like dark violets across his ribs, shoulder stitched with neat dark thread that still oozed a little. Gerald and two medics worked through the night while I sat on a small stool by his bedside, fingers clenched into my clothes so tightly my skin burned.
I did not sleep.
I watched him breathe.
Because every breath he took felt borrowed. Fragile. Something I had no right to hold hope in.
He’s hurt because of you.
The thought whispered itself into my skull again and again, like a blade slowly sliding deeper.
If I had never crossed into that street…
If I had never protected his nephew…
If I had never been found alive…
They wouldn’t be hunting him like this. Wouldn’t be tearing down safehouses. Wouldn’t be dying in hallways just for trying to keep me alive.
This world burned because I existed in it.
And Jerome was the one holding that flame in his hands.
I pressed a damp cloth to his forehead, careful, gentle, but my chest twisted painfully the whole time.
He saved me
fed me
protected me
fought for me
bled for me.
And what had I given him?
Fear. Chaos. Bloodshed.
Nothing but reasons for death to follow him.
My eyes blurred before I realized I was crying. I tried quickly to wipe them off as I didn't want anyone seeing me cry, but with every swipe of my hands came another tear.
I was literally just bad luck personified.
My mother died giving birth to me, my father died protecting me from men that wanted to kidnap me when I was thirteen, the only friend I had was separated from me because I insisted on going into the woods that night.
Out of all the children that Donga raised, I was the one tortured the most.
Now, here in was with the same bad luck, rubbing off on a man that is considered mighty. Bringing him down to fighting personal battles for me.
Reminiscing on my sad past that I thought I had forgotten was really not in the books for me.
Everything was just not going well for me or too well, I don't even know.
Jerome Black, popularly known as the reaper had feelings for me and the worst part was that I did too and honestly think I liked him way more than he liked me.
It meant a lot more than just mutual affection.
I had been in the streets, and know very well what that means if it got serious which I don't think it will but can't help but wonder
“what would become if him and I?"
"Would I be used as his weakness every now and then?"
"Would that mean my freedom?"
"What do I do when he gets bored, breaks up with me and tell me to leave. My life would be over as I was already a target?"
I knew I was overthinking but I could not help but see the cons over the pros.
\---
By evening, Jerome stirred slowly, like his body waged war even in sleep.
His eyes blinked open, unfocused at first, then locking onto me with the ghost of a smile on his lips like I was the first thing he expected to see.
“Aiyana.”
Just one word. Rough. Grounded. Real.
I leaned closer, brushing hair from his forehead carefully. “You’re safe. You’re alright.”
He tried to sit up, winced, and I placed a hand on his chest.
Firm, but gentle.
“Lie down. Please.”
He searched my face, something unreadable flickering through his gaze.
That’s when he noticed the tears dry on my cheeks.
His hand lifted slowly—bruised, bandaged fingers brushing the track marks under my eyes.
He didn’t ask why.
He just looked at me like the world outside the door didn’t exist.
“Aiyana,” he murmured, voice rough from sleep and blood loss.
The fact that he was still trying to comfort me despite being in pain himself, tugged at my heartstrings.
The sentence should have comforted me.
Instead, it broke something inside me.
“You nearly died because of me.”
His jaw tightened. His grip on my wrist firmed—not to restrain, but to anchor.
“I nearly die every week,” he said simply. “But this time, I had someone to come back to.”
My breath stilled.
He said it like a truth, not a confession.
Like it was already carved into him.
My vision blurred again, but this time not from guilt, but from a tender ache so deep I didn’t know if I could survive it.
I leaned forward, resting my forehead against his.
He didn’t kiss me.
He didn’t pull me closer.
He just breathed with me. Warm. Slow. Real.
Like the world was quiet for the first time in years.
I'm finished.
\---
The next days were recovery, routine, slow breaths.
I changed his bandages.
He let me.
Not like a patient.
Like a man who had surrendered something sacred.
Sometimes he winced and refused painkillers obviously just to get a reaction as even the stitches done without anaesthesia didn't bother him much.
He may be quiet but his actions speak louder than words.
When he slept, I stayed.
Still torn between love and terror
between wanting to stay and wanting to save him by leaving.
He would wake sometimes in the night, chest heaving with quiet panic. And without speaking, he would reach for my hand.
Not gripping.
Not demanding.
Just holding.
A question without words.
Are you here?
I’m here.
Each night felt more fragile than the last—like peace balanced on a knife edge, like the universe watched us with cruel curiosity.
Because love like this was not soft.
It was sharp, breathless, dangerous.
And yet… I didn’t want to run from it.
Not anymore.
\---
The morning he finally stood without wavering, he caught me watching him with an expression I couldn’t hide fast enough.
Fear.
Love.
Guilt.
All tangled like thread I could not unwind.
He crossed the room slowly. Not looming, not commanding. Just close enough that I could feel his warmth.
His fingers tipped my chin upward so I’d meet his eyes.
"Mine."