fourth wing xadens pov

chapter 22

Chapter 22: Daggers

I stay with her while they stitch her up. I lean against the wall with my arms crossed while they insert tubes and drips. I tug at my hair restlessly as night falls and she’s still not conscious, seeking comfort in the feel of her steady pulse at her wrist.

When they wheel Barlowe in a few hours later, it takes everything in me to not send my shadows over to finish the job. I try to distract myself, flipping a dagger over and over, catching it by the tip.

The bed shifts next to me, and I look at her, watching her eyes blink open and narrow at me. She’s alive.

I want to kiss her. I want to take her face in my hands and make her promise to never scare me like that again. But I don’t. Instead, I arch an impressed brow and ask, “Oranges?”

She tries to move but blanches in pain. “How many stitches?”

“Eleven on one side and nineteen on the other.” I watched every single one like a penance for not protecting her better. I lean forward and say again, “You turned oranges into a weapon, Violence?”

She wriggles up the bed so she’s sitting and shrugs, like it was nothing. “I worked with what I had.”

“Seeing as it kept you alive – kept us alive – I can’t really argue, and I’m not going to ask how it is you always know who you’ll end up challenging.” I’m furious at her for not asking for help, but it’s softened by the relief that she’s awake and talking and here. “Telling Ridoc allowed Emmetterio to get him here in time. Unfortunately, he’s five beds down from you, and he’ll live, unlike the second-year a row over. You could have killed him and saved us all a lot of trouble.”

“I didn’t want to kill him.” I did. She tests her shoulder in a practiced motion. “I just wanted him to stop killing me.”

“You should have told me.” It bursts angrily out of my mouth before I can stop it. I already know why she did what she did. Hell, I even respect it. But even after all this distance, I wish that she needed me like I need her.

“And you could have done nothing about it besides make me look weak.” She’s glaring at me again, and it’s oddly comforting. It’s been weeks since I allowed myself to look at her, I’ll take all the glares I can get. “And you haven’t exactly been around to talk about anything in weeks. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that kiss scared you.”

It’s the first time she’s spoken about it and my heart skips. The way she says it… it’s like she’s missed me. She thinks she scared me. Does that mean I didn’t scare her? My gaze softens for a second, surprised, before I remember: distance.    

“That’s not up for discussion,” I say coolly.

“Seriously?” She arches a brow at me, and I wither inside. All I want to do is talk about it. To know how she felt. To do it again. But I keep my face neutral.

“It was a mistake. You and I are going to be stationed together for the rest of our lives, never able to escape the other.” The words sound over rehearsed and practiced, even to me. “Getting involved – even on a physical level – is a colossal blunder. No point talking about it.”

She stares back at me, her brow raised like she doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. A long stretch of silence drags out between us.