CHAPTER 135: SHE AWAKES

AIDEN POV:

I’d been staring at the window for hours. Or maybe it was minutes. Time had stopped making sense somewhere between hearing the doctor say the word "rabies" and watching her convulse in our bed like something out of a nightmare.

Now, silence.

The only sounds in the room were the hum of machines and the steady beeping that reminded me she was still alive—just barely.

I sat in the corner, back rigid, arms crossed like I wasn’t itching to be closer. Like I didn’t want to yank the blanket higher around her shoulders or brush that matted hair out of her face. Like I didn’t want to shake her awake and scream at her for making me care.

Because that’s the worst part, isn’t it?

Caring.

I hated it. Hated that even after everything—after the lies, after the past life memories, after the airport—I still wanted her to wake up. Just so I could hate her to her face instead of to an empty room.

A soft, broken sound snapped me out of it.

My eyes whipped to the bed.

She moved. Barely. A twitch in her fingers, her dry lips parting. Then, a sharp inhale—shallow, but real.

My heart stuttered.

She was waking up.

I stood so fast the chair scraped against the marble floor. I didn’t move closer. I couldn’t. If I did, I might break.

Her lashes fluttered like moth wings, eyes rolling before they finally landed, unfocused and glazed, on the ceiling. She looked lost—like a child in a nightmare.

I took a step forward before catching myself and freezing.

She groaned, her voice raspy, broken. "W-where..."

I swallowed hard. "You’re home."

My voice came out low, clipped—like I didn’t care. Like I hadn’t been pacing like a lunatic just hours ago, debating whether to go after that damn dog myself and rip it apart for touching her.

She turned her head slowly. Her gaze landed on me. Her lips trembled like she was about to cry.

I looked away.

I couldn’t afford her tears. Not right now.

"You passed out," I muttered, arms crossing again. "No one told you to go on a scenic tour of hell."

She blinked, dazed. "I... I was looking for the house."

I scoffed. "Didn’t look very hard. Or maybe you just enjoy getting bit by strays."

God. I hated how bitter I sounded. But it was better this way. Safer.

Her throat worked like she wanted to say something else, but her body betrayed her again. She winced, curling slightly as the pain caught up to her.

I clenched my jaw, hard enough I felt it in my ears. Every part of me wanted to go to her. But I stayed rooted where I was. Cold. Distant.

I had to be. Because if I got too close, I might kiss her forehead. I might beg her never to do something so stupid again.

And I still wasn’t sure I could forgive her. For everything. For what she did to me in another life. For what she made me feel now.

"Rest," I muttered. "The doctor will be in soon. Try not to collapse again."

She flinched at my tone. I hated that too. That I still had the power to hurt her.

She turned her face to the other side of the bed, away from me.

Good.

It was easier when she wasn’t looking at me like that.

Like she still loved me.

******

I didn’t assign anyone to watch her.

Didn’t ask the nurse to check in more than the doctor’s protocol required. Didn’t hover at her bedside like some doting husband. God forbid anyone saw me give a damn.

But somehow, I always found myself nearby.

Across the hall. At the door. In the chair by the fireplace that offered just enough of a view into the bedroom without looking like I was watching.

She slept most of the first day. Her fever was stubborn, unpredictable. Her skin too pale, her lips too dry. Even unconscious, she looked... small. Fragile.

It made me furious.

Not at her. Not just at her. But at myself, too—for letting her get this far. For leaving her at that goddamn airport.

If Tobias noticed how many times I checked my watch—or how often I found excuses to walk past the bedroom door—he didn’t say a word. Smart man.

By the second day, she stirred more. Whispered nonsense in her sleep, the same way she had when the fever first broke. Sometimes my name. Sometimes other words. Darker ones.

"Stop—please... it hurts..."

"Don’t burn me..."

Once, she cried for food in a child’s voice, asking someone—her mother, I guessed—for bread. I nearly dropped the glass of scotch in my hand.

What kind of hell had she lived through?

I didn’t ask.

I couldn’t.

Not when I still remembered what she did to me in our past lives. Not when my sister’s face still flashed through my mind whenever I looked at her.

Still... I adjusted the thermostat in the room so she wouldn’t shiver at night.

Still... I moved the flowers away from her bedside because she’d once mentioned they gave her migraines.

Still... I sat in that same chair, just outside the door, pretending to read while straining to hear if she was breathing evenly.

By the third day, she was awake for longer periods.

I didn’t rush to her bedside.

But I didn’t walk away either.

She didn’t speak much. Just stared out the window, hugging the blanket to her chest. Her silence grated on me, but not as much as the bruises on her arms. Or the way she winced every time she shifted her leg.

William offered to bring in another doctor for a second opinion. I said no.

Not because I didn’t want another opinion—but because the thought of another stranger seeing her like that made something hot and violent stir inside me.

Mine.

The word came uninvited, unwanted, and I crushed it before it could take root.

She wasn’t mine.

She was... a contract. A lie. A trap I’d fallen into willingly.

So why did I keep watching over her like some wounded creature I was too afraid to lose?

I told myself it was the guilt. That leaving her behind was a moment of weakness, one I’d correct by making sure she lived through this—and then walked away, like I should have done a long time ago.

But when she looked at me from across the room with those tired, broken eyes...

God help me, I couldn’t breathe.

I snapped at William the next time he tried to help her to the bathroom. Insisted he let her do it on her own.

"I want her strong enough to leave," I told him.

But the truth was—I wanted her strong enough to face me.

To fight back.

To yell. To scream. To make me hate her again.

Because anything was better than this aching silence... this ache in me.

*****

It started with small things.

She stood up without help.

Walked to the bathroom without clutching the wall.

Spoke full sentences without rasping for breath.

Each improvement should’ve relieved me. Should’ve loosened the knot that had tightened in my chest the moment she collapsed at the front door.

But it didn’t.

It only made things worse.

Because every day she looked less like the fragile woman writhing in fevered nightmares and more like the Alexia I remembered. The Alexia I hated. The Alexia who had once held the power to ruin me with nothing more than a smile.

And I—I became cruel to cope.

Cold. Detached. Precise in my indifference.

"Stop dragging your feet," I snapped when she tried walking down the hallway for the first time. "If you can get bitten by a dog and survive a psych ward escape, I’m sure you can make it to the kitchen without limping like a wounded doe."

She flinched.

I hated that I noticed.

Hated more that it made me pause—just for a second—before I turned away and kept walking.

She stopped asking for things after that. No more requests for tea, or help with the pillows, or even for someone to open the curtains. She did it all in silence, even when she struggled. Even when I could hear her grunt in pain and refused to look back.

Once, I caught her staring at me while I pretended to read by the fire. Her eyes were glassy, unsure, like she was waiting for something from me—an apology, maybe. A softness.

But I just stared back.

"What?" I said, ice in my tone. "Say something or stop looking at me like a kicked puppy. It’s pathetic."

She looked away after that. Didn’t look at me again for the rest of the day.

Good.

That was good.

The more distance, the better. If I let her close again, I’d fall for her again, and I couldn’t afford that—not with everything I remembered. Not with what she’d done.

But every night, I’d stand outside the door to the bedroom and stare for a moment too long. Just to check she was breathing. Just to make sure her fever hadn’t returned.

William noticed.

Tobias definitely noticed.

But no one said anything.

I snapped at everyone. Fired one of the housemaids for leaving a water glass too close to the edge of the nightstand. Told William he was incompetent for serving cold soup. Accused Tobias of slacking when he’d just been driving back and forth picking up her medications and groceries.

It wasn’t them I was angry at.

It was me.

Because I’d never hated anyone the way I hated Alexia... and I’d never wanted anyone the way I wanted her, either.

It was sick.

It was maddening.

And it only got worse as she got stronger. Her skin started to glow again. Her hair regained its luster. The bruises faded. The limp softened.

She even smiled once at William when he brought her tea. That same smile she used to give me in the mornings when she was pretending we were a real couple.

It took everything in me not to slam the door when I left the room.

The stronger she got, the harder it was to pretend I didn’t care.

So I compensated.

With cruelty.

With silence.

With sharp words designed to keep her exactly where I needed her—on the other side of this emotional chasm, far enough that I could protect myself from her... but close enough that I could still see she was alive.

Still breathing.

Still mine.

Even if I told myself I didn’t want her to be.