Page 8 of Ravaged Soul

HELP.

Four letters. One word. It should be easy to ask for it. Yet if I could open my lungs long enough to scream the word, I doubt I’d have the courage to. Not when my suffering is justified. If Tom is in pain, then I should be too.

I was selfish to let Blaine free me. I was selfish to let Tom take me in. I was selfish for ever thinking that Gael would let me escape without a fight. And now I’m being selfish by denying Luis’s demands and trusting the team.

The harder I fight to stand, the more my body sags. Battling scenarios worsen my steadily splitting skull, the fatigue and nausea worsening to an extreme peak. Tom dead. Tom alive. Tom imprisoned. Tom tortured. Each scene adds to my spiralling meltdown.

I’m pathetic. I can’t even help myself, let alone him. How can I ever expect to save Tom’s life and make Gael pay when I can’t scrape myself off the fucking floor?

What feels like an agonising eternity later, doors slam open, and footsteps stomp into the large training room. The thunderclaps rouse me from a semi-conscious daze, forcing air back into my chest.

“Ember? You in here?”

The steps circle around then suddenly halt.

“Shit. Ember!”

My hand lifts to wave weakly. “I’m f-fine.”

“Bloody hell.”

Thick rubber soles squeak against the training room’s wipe-clean floor.

“How long have you been like this?”

“I… d-don’t know.”

“Fuck, red.”

Hyland’s gravelly baritone betrays his concern. But if I didn’t recognise his deep voice, then his huge legs, ever-present army boots, black cargos and bulging calf muscles would be a dead giveaway.

A calloused hand wraps around the back of my neck beneath my sweat-soaked braid, squeezing lightly. His touch is electric for all the wrong reasons, causing my skin to tighten and prickle with forbidden desire.

“Are you with me?”

“I’m not sure,” I pant out.

A low huff spells out his frustration.Well, same.We’re all frustrated.

“Deep breaths.” Hyland gently massages me. “And tell me what happened.”

“Dizzy… working out.”

“Let me guess. You pushed yourself too hard again.”

My lungs rapidly fill and empty with each heaved breath. “No.”

“Sounds like bullshit to me.”

“F-Fuck off.” I drink in another breath.

“Otherwise you wouldn’t be nearly unconscious on the floor.”

“Maybe it l-looked comfortable!”

“Sure,” he drawls disbelievingly.

It’s not the first lecture he’s given me. He was quick to shut down any plans I had to surrender. That particular argument rumbled on for several hours. Despite being the definition of protective, Hyland is a hot and cold grump with a huge chip on his shoulder.