Chapter 52
Blaze
“Carlo! Wait!” I shout as I swing the door open and limp out of my fucking room like some cracked-up one-legged pirate. I don’t even bother checking if I’m fully dressed or if my hair looks like I got in a fight with a fucking lawnmower. I just hear the jingle of his keys and the front door opening, and my dumbass instinct kicks in—I gotta talk to him. Before he leaves. Before I lose my chance.
I hate how desperate that sounds. I hate that I’m even chasing after him like this. But fuck it. I don’t care right now. I just need to catch him.
My good leg hits the first step, but the other one—the one that’s been screaming in pain for days now—decides it wants to ruin my life today. My foot slips. My knee gives out like a coward, and then everything fucking crashes.
I fall. Hard.
“FUCK!” I yell as I hit the stairs, slide halfway down, and land like a bag of broken bones. The kind of fall that knocks the breath out of you. My vision goes white for a second. My ears ring. Everything hurts. Sharp, pulsing pain shoots from my leg up my spine like someone set off a damn grenade inside me.
I hear him.
“Blaze!”
He sounds scared. No. Not scared. Terrified. I blink and he’s there, right in front of me, crouched, grabbing me before I can push him off.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” I snap, my voice tight, full of pain and rage and shame. I hate that he’s seeing me like this. Crumpled. Weak. I fucking hate this.
He doesn’t listen.
“You can’t even stand,” he says, his voice low but shaking, like he’s trying to keep it together. “Stop fighting me. You need help.”
“I don’t need your fucking help!” I growl, trying to push him away, but my arms are like jelly and my leg feels like it’s been torn in half. I’m panting, sweating, shaking. I’m fucking helpless. This is bullshit. This is NOT me.
He lifts me anyway. Like I weigh nothing. Like I’m a goddamn feather instead of a 6-foot-tall walking piece of fuckery.
My hands curl into fists against his chest, but I can’t hit him. I can’t do shit.
He carries me like I’m something delicate. I want to punch him for that. Or maybe I just want to punch myself. I don’t know.
“Let me go,” I say, but even I can hear how pathetic it sounds.
“Blaze, stop being a fucking pain in the ass. You’re going to the hospital.” His hands lift me up, cradling me against him like I weigh nothing. I’m fucking heavy, but he doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t seem to care that I’m hurting, that I don’t want him touching me, that I just want to scream at him to let me be.
“I’ll walk.” I hiss through clenched teeth, trying to put some distance between us, but my leg buckles under me again, sending me straight back into his arms.
“Not happening.” He mutters under his breath as he lifts me again, ignoring my protests. “I don’t give a shit if you’re mad at me. You’re going to the damn hospital. You can yell at me later, when you’re not limping around like an old man.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter, trying to control the rush of emotions boiling inside me. I fucking hate this. I hate the way he’s doing this. But I also hate the way I feel when he holds me like this, when he doesn’t let me crumble. I’m used to being strong. I’m not used to letting people see me fall apart.
Carlo doesn’t speak. He doesn’t say one fucking word. Just carries me out the damn door like I’m some wounded bride and puts me in the front seat of his car.
I stare straight ahead, furious. At him. At myself. At my goddamn traitor of a leg.
I hate this silence. I hate that he’s driving like I’m not falling apart in the seat beside him. I want him to yell at me. I want him to say something. Anything. Just so I can fight back. I need to fight someone right now.
I glance at him. He’s tense. Jaw tight. One hand white-knuckling the steering wheel. The other flexing on his thigh. He’s pissed. But not at me. At this whole fucking situation. Maybe even at himself. Who knows. He’s Carlo. He holds shit in like it’s a competition.
The pain keeps pulsing in waves. It’s bad. Way worse than before. Every bump on the road sends a jolt up my spine. I don’t say shit, but my hand grips the door so tight I think my knuckles might pop out. My body’s trembling.
He notices.
“You okay?” he finally asks, voice low. He doesn’t look at me. Just keeps driving.
“Yeah, I’m just enjoying this nice fucking road trip,” I mutter.
He sighs but says nothing.
I lean my head back, biting the inside of my cheek, trying not to fucking cry. Yeah, cry. I said it. I’m right there. That line. That edge. Where all the pain and humiliation and fucked-up feelings crash together.
I hate being this vulnerable. I hate needing anyone. Especially him.
Especially after everything.
After I gave him my body, my time, my trust—and he still fucking bailed. Still looked at me like I was just something he could walk away from when it got too heavy. And now he’s here, acting like he cares. Like I mean something.
Fuck him.
“You should’ve just left me on the floor,” I mutter under my breath.
Carlo slams the brake a little too hard as we pull into the hospital parking lot. He parks, turns off the engine, and sits there. Silent.
“You think I could do that?” he asks, finally looking at me. “Just leave you there?”
I shrug, not meeting his eyes. “You’ve done worse.”
“That’s what you think of me now?” he says, quieter this time.
I don’t answer.
Because yeah. That is what I think. Right now, anyway.
I try to open the door myself, but the pain knocks the breath out of me again. My fingers twitch but don’t move. I’m too fucking tired. Everything hurts.
He’s out of the car and around to my side in a flash. Opens the door. Unbuckles me. And just stares at me for a second.
“You gonna let me help you now? Or you wanna keep playing tough guy until you pass out?”
I grit my teeth. “Just fucking do it.”
He lifts me again, arms wrapped tight around me. I rest my head against his chest because I can’t hold it up anymore. I feel sick. Dizzy. Like I might throw up or black out. I’m not even embarrassed anymore. I just want the pain to stop.
The nurses rush toward us the second we walk through the glass doors. Carlo answers their questions while I just sit there, useless in his arms, barely keeping my eyes open. They take me from him, but not without a look—that look he gives me when he’s not speaking, but I know what he’s saying anyway.
You matter. Even if you’re an asshole.
I get wheeled into a room. Some young nurse with a nose piercing asks me to rate my pain from one to ten.
“Fucking twenty,” I mutter.
She chuckles like she thinks I’m joking. Bitch, I’m dying.
A doctor shows up. Big guy. Looks like he should be guarding a prison, not fixing people. He pulls up my records, checks my leg, does a bunch of poking and pressing that makes me scream at him.
“It’s worse than we thought,” he finally says, looking up. “You’ve been walking around in such a bad state, probably for days. Now it’s aggravated. I can see it’s an old injury, you’ve left it for too long. Might need surgery.”
I laugh. It comes out like a cough. “Of course I do. Fucking amazing.”
“You’re lucky,” the doctor says, standing. “Could’ve collapsed entirely. We’ll run some scans, keep you for observation. But you need to rest. Strictly no weight on that leg until we figure this out.”
I nod, even though I hate every fucking word he just said.
Carlo reappears in the doorway. He’s got that damn look on his face again. That mix of guilt and something else I don’t want to name.
He steps inside. Doesn’t say anything.
Neither do I.
Because what the fuck is there to say?
I’m broken. And he’s here.
And that terrifies me more than the pain.