Foreigner

Chapter 31: Sleepless

The moonlight cuts through the window in long, pale bars, striping the dorm room in cold silver. I sit at the desk, elbows pressed hard against the wood, staring at nothing.

The small clock on the wall ticks softly, each second dragging slower than the last. I haven't even bothered pretending to sleep tonight. The rage coils too tight under my skin, buzzing at the edges of my fingers, pressing like a weight against the inside of my ribs.

I flex my hands. Clench, unclench. Again. Again. I barely even feel them anymore.

The memory plays on a loop behind my eyes—the zip tie biting into my wrists, the cold against my bare legs, Elliot's smug fucking grin.

The weight of his hands.

The flash of the camera.

The next time I see him, it'll be different. I'll make sure of it.

The bed creaks behind me. Soft movement. I hear the rustle of blankets sliding to the floor, the quiet pad of bare feet crossing the room.

Christian stops just behind me, and for a second he doesn't say anything. Just stands there, breathing slow and steady.

Then, careful, like he's approaching a wounded animal, he reaches out toward my shoulder.

Instinct slams into me before thought can catch up. I twist sharply in my chair, hand snapping up, intercepting his wrist mid-air. My fingers close around him hard.

For a beat, we just freeze there—me gripping him, breathing hard, him wide-eyed with concern, his skin warm under my fingers.

The clock ticks again. Once. Twice.

Slowly, deliberately, I loosen my grip.

Christian's voice breaks the silence first, low and rough at the edges, "I'm not him. I'm not Elliot."

I sit back, dragging a hand through my hair, anger simmering under my skin like acid.

For a second, I can't say anything. The words wedge themselves behind my teeth.

Finally, I mutter, raw and hoarse, "I know." My fingers tighten around the edge of the desk. "But I can't get it out of my head."

Christian breathes in slow, his fists clenching at his sides. The look he gives me — steady, furious, protective — feels like armor slamming into place.

I don't give him the chance to offer anything. To say anything. I shake my head once, slow and deliberate.

Before he can open his mouth, I cut him off, "I'll rest easy once he's dead or in the hospital."

Christian's jaw ticks. His mouth presses into a hard, furious line. But it's his eyes that say the most — the flash of steel, the grim certainty.

He's ready to fight. He's ready to bleed if I tell him to.

I stand up from the chair, facing him square. The tension hums between us, sharp and heavy.

"No," I say, shaking my head. "I need to do this. Alone."

For a moment, he doesn't move. Then, finally, he nods.

Not because he wants to.

Because he understands.

Without another word, I sit back down. Pull open the desk drawer. My notebook thuds onto the wood. A pen follows.

I flip to a blank page. Start writing. Start planning. The rage sharpens into something cold, something clear.

Behind me, Christian doesn't move. He just stands there, silently following along with the plan.

Watching my back. Ready, if I fall.