Page 75 of Wraith (Deviant Assassin #1)

He studies her carefully. The way his gaze softens, he sees it too—the exhaustion, the trauma, the soul-deep fear she’s trying to hide.

Slowly, his hand moves up her arm, pausing at her elbow, then her shoulder, his fingers massaging the tense muscles.

In a low whisper, audible only to us, he tries to calm her, to reassure her without words, to tell her she’s safe. He’s here, I’m here, we’re here.

Her fingers tense as his hand moves, but she doesn’t pull away, from either of us. It’s a start. Her gaze, flickers to me. I offer a small, almost imperceptible smile. The warmth from our joined hands spreads, the chill in my chest dissipating at the open vulnerability in her gaze.

The shift is subtle but undeniable. The chaotic energy fades, replaced by a simmering tension, a charged silence. Both Blade and I wait, and wait, and wait for any clue. And then, I see it—a flicker of hope in my Heathen’s eyes, a look that shifts between me and Blade.

She won’t run. Not right now at least. She’s giving us a chance.

Her fingers tighten around mine, grounding herself.

My eyes flick to Blade; his gaze is possessive, protective, a dangerous mix of desire and fear.

This is not a man who will stay backed into a corner for long.

It’s taking all his restraint to give her time to think, to process, to choose, but it’s costing him dearly.

Her hand is in mine, but she hasn’t reached out to him.

Just as the air crackles with unspoken promise, a sharp rap shatters the fragile moment.

The door opens and Peterson stands there, impassive, with Dr. Mikkelson.

“Thank God,” Kiera breathes, and I’m not sure if she’s that relieved to see the doctor, or to escape the vulnerability charging the room. “We need help over here.”

Truer words have never been spoken. We need so much help.

Dr. Mikkelson, a woman whose calm demeanor is at odds with the raw chaos of the room, enters.

Peterson, a bit pale himself, silently guides her into the room.

Her crisp almost antiseptic scent clashes with the lingering metallic tang of blood.

Mikkelson’s assessing gaze sweeps over us, taking in our blood-soaked clothes, the charged energy in the room, yet her expression remains impassive, and professional.

I suppose it would take a lot to surprise Grandmother’s personal triage physician. The thought is absurd, yet oddly comforting. It’s a distraction, a brief respite from the emotional maelstrom swirling around me.

“Lay down before you fall down, Bennett,” Mikkelson’s commands gesturing to the bed.

Her voice is oddly familiar, bringing to mind a particularly nasty biking accident I had here as a child as Kiera helps me over to the bed.

It took months for the headaches to fade.

As I relax back against the soft pillows, surely ruining the duvet, the doctor’s smile appears, “It’s been years since the last time, but I’m not sure you’re in much better shape, now.

” Her presence is a stark contrast to the intense emotional reality of the room.

Her gaze lingers on a bloody Kiera for just a moment.

Does she think it’s mine? “You two can go.”

“Not happening Doc,” Blade says at the same time Kiera growls in protest, and sits on the opposite side of the bed fingers never leaving mine .

The doctor’s eyebrows wing up, and her gaze meets mine. I shrug instinctively, then wince.

“They can stay. I might bleed out before you could actually convince either to leave.”

The poor joke doesn’t land with anyone.

My breath hitches as Mikkelson’s cool fingers probe my leg wound through the hole in my jeans.

Her touch oddly soothing amidst the lingering adrenaline.

The sharp pain is a dull throb now, as the doctor removes a pair of scissors from her bag and cuts the entire right side of my jeans open—ankle to hip—and pushes the fabric away.

Kiera shifts closer, pressing against my side as I grip her fingers.

Blade’s hand tightens around Kiera’s shoulder, offering support as Mikkelson treats my wound. The action speaks volumes; his gaze remains fixed on her face, reading the emotions that parade across her soft skin that’s far too pale.

Mikkelson’s voice is soft, yet her words cut through the tension. “A through-and-through. Clean, thankfully. Missed your femoral artery. But it needs stitches. I’ll get you some painkillers.”

Her tone is professional, yet her eyes—sharp and perceptive—linger on the charged atmosphere, taking in the unspoken questions and desires weaving through our fractured reality.

Kiera moves again, closer, like she can’t get close enough even if the doctor is staring daggers at her. So close her breath caresses my neck. The warmth of her hand against mine, a reassurance, a silent promise. Her scent is comforting, her skin, her hair, her shampoo grounds me.

Kiera is my refuge, my home now.

A small prick to my skin and the drugs hit quickly, a wave of warmth washing over me, erasing the edge of pain but leaving me floating in the deeper desires that have been simmering beneath the surface.

My senses sharpen, even as the edge of my physical awareness blurs slightly.

The room swims into focus. I focus on my Heathen’s eyes.

The arrival of the doctor didn’t chase away our intimacy, it has simply shifted the focus. As the doctor fixes my body, I realize my world is now defined by Kiera and Blade. A family, however unconventional.