Chapter 142: Paige

Chapter 142: Paige
The rehab gym is a mix of too-bright lights, the faint scent of disinfectant, and the occasional murmur of conversation. It’s quiet, but not silent. The sound of machines hums in the background, a treadmill whirs somewhere near the back, and the occasional clang of weights echoes through the space.

But I barely notice any of it.

Because all I can think about is the next few days.

My hands grip the parallel bars tightly as I shift my weight onto my bad leg, testing it, pushing myself further than I probably should. The ache shoots through my muscles, a slow burn, but I grit my teeth and keep going.

"You're doing good," the nurse says beside me, adjusting her hold under my arm in case I lose my balance. "Just take it slow."

I nod but don’t respond.

Three days.

That’s all we have left before we leave Alderstone for good.

Jaxon walked me through the plan two nights ago, sitting on the edge of my hospital bed, his expression unreadable but voice deadly calm.

"We go in, we get the stash, and we get out. Fast."

"And if Erin betrays us?" I had asked, my fingers curling in my lap.

"Then we’re ready."

Our backup plan isn’t just something Jaxon threw together last-minute. It’s detailed, precise, calculated.

Step One: Have a backup car.

Jaxon will bring an extra vehicle—a decoy car. He’ll drive it himself and park it a few blocks from the storage unit. If anything feels off—if Erin makes one wrong move, if we even suspect it’s a trap—we switch to the second car and leave. No hesitation.

Step Two: Position ourselves for an escape before we enter.

Jaxon already scoped out every exit. There’s an abandoned warehouse a few blocks from the storage unit. If we’re being followed, we ditch the car, run through the warehouse, and come out on the other side where he has a motorcycle hidden—one that isn’t connected to him.

"If we need to disappear, that’s how we do it," Jaxon had said.

"And if they block the exits?" I asked.

"Then we improvise."

Step Three: Weapons.

Jaxon never goes anywhere unarmed.

He’s bringing two guns—one at his waist, one strapped to his ankle. He’s also carrying a switchblade because, as he put it, “Sometimes a knife is quieter than a bullet.”

He tossed me a blade, too.

"You know how to use one?" he had asked, his grey eyes watching me closely.

I had turned the knife over in my hands. "I guess I’ll find out."

Jaxon smirked at that, like he already knew the answer. That may have something to do with what I did to Silas.

Step Four: We don’t take everything.

The storage unit isn’t just filled with money. It has fake IDs, weapons, documents, things we can’t risk being traced. We take what we need and burn anything dangerous.

"What if we get caught inside?" I had asked.

Jaxon had looked me dead in the eye. "Then we take the first person who comes through that door and make them let us out."

I had shivered slightly at his tone. It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

And after that?

We disappear.

Jaxon already bought the tickets.

He refuses to tell me where we’re going. Says it’s a surprise. But honestly?

I don’t care.

Because there’s nothing left for me in Alderstone.

No family. No safe home. No friends.

Nothing except Jaxon.

And as long as I have him, I don’t care where we go.

"Paige?"

The nurse’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. I blink, realizing I’ve been gripping the bars a little too tight.

"Sorry," I murmur.

"You okay?" she asks, her brow furrowed.

"Yeah. Just thinking."

She watches me for a second, like she’s debating whether or not to push for more, but she doesn’t. Instead, she nods toward the bars.

"Let’s try again. Keep the weight even on both legs, don’t rush it."

I exhale and focus.

Step. Shift. Breathe.

Step. Shift. Breathe.

By the time I finish my laps, my legs feel like lead—heavy, sore, exhausted. I roll out my shoulders and thank the staff before heading toward the exit.

Jaxon isn’t with me this time.

He had things to do—getting a new phone, buying more tickets, planning everything down to the last detail. He’s been holed up in our hospital room all morning, working through everything while I was in physio.

I take the elevator up alone, moving at my own slow pace.

And when I reach the room, I stop in my tracks.

Jaxon is asleep.

For the third time since I met him, I see him like this—not alert, not tense, not dangerous. Just calm. His head is tilted slightly to the side, his long lashes casting faint shadows against his cheekbones. One arm is resting over his stomach, the other still loosely holding his phone against his chest. His fingers twitch slightly, like he’s dreaming.

He looks... peaceful.

Like he finally let himself rest.

I step inside quietly, closing the door without making a sound.

I can’t stop staring at him.

Jaxon is always moving. Always thinking. Always planning for the next step, always calculating the next danger.

He never lets his guard down.

And yet, here he is, stretched out on my hospital bed, his breathing deep and steady, his body completely relaxed for once.

I sit down carefully on the chair beside the bed, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest.

He’s so tired.

I can see it—the exhaustion in his face, the lingering bruises, the tension still coiled in his muscles, even in sleep.

He’s been uncomfortable since the moment he stepped into this hospital, since the moment he found me bleeding out in Silas’s apartment.

And he’s still recovering.

His ribs are still healing, his body still covered in fading bruises, old wounds, reminders of what he went through to get to me.

And yet, he refuses to rest.

He refuses to leave my side.

I love that about him.

And I hate it, too.

Because I want him to rest.

I want him to feel safe enough to let go, to fall asleep without worrying about what will happen when he wakes up.

I want him to have more than a life of running, more than a life of fighting and planning and surviving.

I want him to live.

I glance at his hand, still loosely gripping his phone, and gently, carefully, slip it from his fingers, placing it on the bedside table.

His brow furrows slightly in his sleep, but he doesn’t wake up.

I smile softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead.

"You’re safe," I whisper. "You can sleep."

He doesn’t hear me.

But I hope—wherever we go next—he finally believes it.

That he finally lets himself believe it.

And I hope that when we leave this city behind, he’ll always sleep like this.