Come Hell or High Water - Striker x Reader (18+)

53. Her Weakness

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Tears pricked my eyes as Striker continued to kiss me hard, his fingers slowly weaving into my hair.

He said it, I kept repeating in my head. He said it!

An elated smile crept up my lips, and I returned his kisses with equal fervor.

Until the pain and exhaustion set in again.

One of Striker's hands eventually wandered down to my waist, grazing against my wound. I winced and pulled away from the kiss, causing Striker to freeze and release me. His hands hovered over where they had just held me, and he took a small step back. His glowing yellow eyes looked me up and down several times, almost frantically.

I forced a smile and rested my hands on his shoulders. "I'm okay," I said shakily. I leaned on him as I felt the strength being rapidly siphoned from my body. "I'm just . . . I'm so tired."

Striker quickly wrapped his arms around me, his tail curling under my rear to support my weight, and his hand held my head to his chest.

"You're burnin' up," he murmured, pressing the pads of his fingers to my forehead.

I sighed through the nauseating pain, my knees buckling underneath me. "I don't feel so great, Striker."

He promptly picked me up in his arms and held me bridal-style. I clenched my teeth, whimpering at the sudden movement, and tightly clutched a fistful of his dingy shirt. He stiffened, apparently uncertain how to handle me.

He brought me to a broken-down wagon nearby. The words "STRIKER'S SALOON" were amateurishly painted on a homemade sign that hung above the entryway to the wagon, and the neon profile of a hell horse's head glowed above the sign. Striker stepped inside the wagon and laid me down on an old, worn-out bed, draping a tattered purple blanket over my frame. I moaned into the pillow, the gnawing, burning pain of my wound radiating throughout my torso. Striker placed a hand on my arm, then pulled back not a second later. He watched me for a moment, his eyes filled with an unfamiliar worry, before pushing himself to his feet and heading out of the wagon.

"Striker," I muttered.

He immediately stopped and turned around, bending down beside the bed. "What is it?" he said softly.

I breathed in fast, shallow pants, afraid that breathing any deeper might exacerbate my pain. My body had been splashed in a cold sweat, and I began to shiver again. I reached for Striker and wrapped a trembling hand around his forearm.

"Stay. Please. . ."

Slowly, gently, he took my wrist and pried my hand away before lacing his fingers with mine. After a moment, he settled onto the mattress and lay beside me, keeping some distance between us. His free hand rested on my hip, but he quickly withdrew it. He was hesitant to touch me, as if I were made of glass.

He cupped my cheek with his hand, and I heard him let out a shaky sigh.

"I'm sorry."

His voice was just a broken whisper, and I looked up to see a deep grimace carved onto his face. His eyes were glazed as though he might burst into tears at any second.

"I'm so sorry."

Striker's image gradually became increasingly blurry, a dull halo forming around him and the blue string lights hanging from the ceiling of the wagon. Too weak to hold his face in my hand, I lightly laid my fingertips on his cheek. Striker clenched his jaw, his brows knitting together, and he took my hand and pressed my knuckles to his lips.

A tired smile tugged at my lips as I felt myself slipping. Everything grew darker and darker, and I gathered my last remaining shards of strength to speak before it all went black:

"I love you, too."