Lovers Not Without Sin | Dutch van der Linde x OC

Chapter 43

Biting. That's the first word that comes to mind. It's like her whole body is locked in the jaw of a wild animal, one that's taking as much time as it pleases to sink its teeth in. They are sinking, just agonisingly slow.

Ada's aware of sounds, distorted around her and she struggles to pull out anything coherent. At least she's warm, wherever she is.

Trying to pull her eyes open only stings, so she relaxes and focuses on the weight of what must be a blanket tucked over her. It's been a while since she's felt that sensation and drifts back into a dreamless sleep with the comfort that something has changed since the last time she was conscious.

The sounds are gone the next time. If anything, the noise had been a comfort but the lack thereof is almost an unsympathetic torment, robbing her of one of her vital senses. She fears she could be a passenger on the train to hell, travelling through an endless purgatory. The sting isn't as bad in her eyes; the previous light behind them is now out. It's blurry when she opens her lids a fraction. She squeezes her eyes shut in an attempt to rub the clarity back into them, and when she tries to see again her fear is realised.

She's greeted by the devil himself, his head lulled as he sits in a chair with a book clutched on his lap. The soft, warm light from a nearby lantern casts an orange-red light over his features. She's never been so glad to see him.

"Huh, so I did make it to hell," she mumbles, her voice hoarse.

His head whips up as he sucks in a breath, time suspended for a moment before he drops forward towards her, almost causing her to jolt back in response.

"Adaline," he breathes, eyes wide and brows pressed together.

She sighs minimally, expecting nothing less from the man. He looks different. The usual perfectly pieced-together persona dispelled, his emotions are much easier to read on his face. It stirs an odd feeling inside of her, the unfamiliarity of it distancing her further from the place she never thought she'd return to. She's home, but it doesn't feel like home.

"Are you in any pain?" he asks, eyes scanning down her body as though her ailments will speak for themselves. "Can I get you anything?"

She is in pain, but can't pinpoint it to a localised spot and assumes it's more of a full-body effect following her ordeal. She swallows. "I'm thirsty."

"Thirsty," he nods like he's just made a breakthrough with someone who doesn't speak English and they've finally managed to communicate. He stands and edges eagerly to the door. "I'll be right back. Right back. Just stay there."

"Can't exactly move, Van der Linde," she mutters to herself once he's left.

The flickering of the lantern keeps her company, she watches the shadows it casts within the tent and before she knows it Dutch is back with a mug and some stew, placed gingerly on the side table next to the cot.

"In case you feel like eating. You can always drink the broth if not," his tone is softly alarming, the panic and desire he has to comfort her each fighting for their voices.

She pulls her arm free from underneath the blanket, the gunshot scar catching her attention and reminding her of how many others she's likely displaying. Reaching for the mug, she tries not to think about it. He passes it to her, keeping his hand on it while she brings it to her lips and sips at the water. It tickles her throat and she coughs quietly when she hands it back to him.

"Can you sit up?" he motions to the food.

"I think I'll wait a while before I eat, I'm a little queasy," she whispers and he shifts the table away slightly, sitting on the floor and leaning his arm on the cot as he faces her. His eyes are heavy with sorrow, and if she didn't know any better, she'd figure this was her deathbed. He leans forward, those eyes now focused on her lips and she brings his thumb to his, stopping him in his tracks. She doesn't know why she stops him. "I... I just -"