Rain's POV:
My feet feel cold.
Warm hands are suddenly everywhere—too fast—gripping me, rolling me, dragging me.
Fingers dig into my arms, my shoulders, my waist.
I try to shake them off, half-asleep, heart slamming against my ribs, but the grip only tightens.
More desperate.
More frantic.
Then I hear it.
A violent ripping sound.
Glass exploding.
"What the hell—" I gasp, jolting awake.
Dane is in my room.
Pacing.
Back and forth, sharp and erratic, like a caged animal that's run out of walls.
He's barefoot. His hair is wild.
His chest heaves like he hasn't breathed properly in hours.
"Dane, what the fuck are you doing?" I scream.
He doesn't even react.
"They're right there," he mutters, over and over, voice shredded.
"They're right there. I feel it. I fucking feel it."
The way he says it—like it's a certainty, like it's already happening—sends ice straight down my spine.
He looks absolutely terrified.
It scares me more than anything else could.
I swing my legs off the bed and move toward him without thinking, calling his name again.
And my foot comes down on something sharp.
Shattered glass.
It slices straight through skin.
Pain detonates up my leg.
"Ouch—fuck—fuck!" I scream, stumbling back instinctively.
Blood hits the floor.
Before I can even register it, Dane whirls.
His eyes land on the blood and something inside him snaps.
He charges.
The next thing I know, he's tackled me onto the bed—hard enough to knock the breath clean out of me.
The mattress dips violently beneath us.
Blood smears everywhere, soaking into the pristine white duvet in dark, spreading patches.
"Oh my god—oh my god—don't die—please don't die," he's screaming now, words tripping over each other, frantic, broken.
"Please—please—fuck—no—no—"
He sounds like a man watching the worst moment of his life replay in real time.
I just lie there.
Frozen.
Pinned beneath his weight.
"What—what happened to you?" I whisper, but it's useless.
He's not here.
He's somewhere else entirely.
His hands grab mine, shaking so badly they rattle my bones.
"I'm so sorry," he keeps begging.
"I'm so sorry—there's so much blood—there's so much blood—"
"Dane, listen to me—" I try, my voice cracking.
He doesn't hear it.
He doesn't hear me at all.
Suddenly he's yanking my pants down, movements sharp and frantic, fingers slipping because they're slick with blood.
He's checking my legs like he's searching for something fatal—my thighs, my knees, my calves.
His hands keep moving.
Too fast.
Too rough.
Too panicked.
"Stop it!" I cry, pushing weakly at his shoulder with my foot. "Danny—stop—please—"
He doesn't stop.
His hands race down to my ankles, my feet—his breath coming out in broken, uneven bursts.
"No—no—no—you're bleeding—fuck—fuck—" he keeps chanting, voice cracking apart.
And that's when I see it.
He hasn't noticed.
The blood on the floor trailing.
Thin red lines trail from the shattered glass to the edge of the bed.
His feet.
Deep cuts carved into the soles of them.
He's bleeding too.
And he doesn't even feel it.
"Stop it," I cry, my voice splintering as I try to shove him away with my leg again.
He doesn't even register it.
"No," he keeps saying, the word tumbling out of him in pieces.
"No—no—no—"
His breath is ragged, sawing in and out of his chest.
"You're not fine," he insists, frantic, voice breaking apart.
"There's blood—there's blood everywhere—"
His palms slide up my thighs, fingers digging in as if he needs to anchor himself to something solid before he's swept away.
Then he yanks my T-shirt up.
And freezes.
He just stares at my skin like he's waiting for something to crawl out.
"No marks," he whispers.
"No crosses."
His throat works hard, like swallowing hurts.
"No marks. No crosses."
He chants like it's a prayer.
His eyes are wild—glassy, unfocused, flicking from one inch of me to the next, not seeing me at all.
Just checking.
Like he's already accepted that I'm gone and this is what's left.
There's a sound in his chest—something cracked, something strangled—and it hurts so badly to hear it that my ribs ache in sympathy.
"I'm here," I plead.
"I'm right here, Danny."
My voice trembles, useless against the storm in him.
"I'm alive. Please—please look at me."
He doesn't.
He rolls me over again, hands shaking so badly they stutter against my back, my sides, my shoulders.
His breath keeps hitching, like it can't decide whether to keep going.
Then his fingers still.
His gaze locks onto my waist.
The bite mark.
His face caves in.
"How did I let this happen?" he chokes, the words ripped out of him raw.
His hands curl into fists at his sides, then open again, helpless.
"What else did they do to you?"
My shirt hits the floor—torn clean in half.
He drops down, pressing his ear to my chest, ear tilted, listening like the answer to everything is hiding inside my ribs.
"Please be alive"
"Please be alive"
The begging doesn't stop.
His breath stutters when he hears it.
My heart.
Still beating.
He lets out a sound that isn't quite a sob and isn't quite a breath.
Tears spill unchecked down his face, soaking into my skin.
He thinks I'm dying.
And I'm crying because watching him believe that is unbearable.
I shove him away, needing space, needing air.
He looks up at me.
But his eyes slide right past.
"I'm here," I say again, my voice barely holding together.
"I'm alive. Look at me."
Nothing.
His gaze drifts to the windows now, shoulders pulled tight to his ears, his whole body vibrating with tension.
"They're coming back," he whispers, like the thought has teeth.
"There's blood—don't die—please—"
The word please falls out of him small. Broken.
Like a child begging in the dark.
"Nobody's here," I say, almost pleading now.
"Nobody's coming. It's just us. Please."
His hands clench in the sheets.
"I won't let them near you," he says, voice hollow with promise.
"I won't. I'll put you away—before they ever get to you."
The way he says it is terrifying.
Certain.
And that's when I understand—
He's trying to survive the idea of losing me again.
And it's tearing him apart from the inside.
I slap him.
Hard.
The sound cracks through the room—sharp, violent, wrong—and for a split second I'm terrified I've broken him even more.
"I'm alive, Danny!" I scream, my throat burning. "I'm with you—please look at me—please!"
My hands are shaking as I grab his and press it to my head, forcing the contact, forcing him to feel me.
"See?" I gasp. "I'm here. I'm here."
I don't hold anything back anymore.
I give him everything I have because I don't know what else to do.
Because losing him to this—watching him drown in something I can't see—is unbearable.
I look at him then.
Really look at him.
And his eyes are pure terror.
Fear—raw and consuming, the kind that strips a person down to nothing.
It hurts him to see me hurt.
And the only pain I'm actually in, is his.
I take his hand again, slower now, gentler, like he might shatter if I move too fast.
I guide it over my face, my eyes, my cheeks—making him feel every inch of me, grounding him in skin and warmth and reality.
"Alive," I whisper, over and over. "See?"
I place his palm against my chest, pressing it there so he can't pull away.
"Feel it," I say, my voice breaking.
"My heart. It's beating. I'm alive. I'm okay."
He looks at me then—really looks—and the sound he makes isn't human.
"You don't look okay," he whines, small and broken, like a child who doesn't understand how the world could be this cruel.
Something inside me fractures completely.
In that moment, there is nothing I wouldn't do.
Nothing I wouldn't give.
If it means pulling him out of this.
"Feel me, Danny," I whisper, desperation bleeding into every syllable.
"I'm alive. I'm okay."
I let his hands move over me, because this is the only language he seems to understand right now.
Because touch is the only thing cutting through the nightmare.
I guide him.
My face.
My shoulders.
My chest.
My waist.
My hips.
With every touch, I repeat it—soft, steady, relentless.
"I'm alive."
I say it until my throat hurts.
Until the words feel carved into my lungs. Until I feel it finally begin to sink into him.
The sobbing slows.
His breathing turns heavy now. Shallow. Uneven.
I take his hand again and guide it between my legs, letting it rest there—just long enough.
Just letting him feel the warmth.
"Feel it, feel me " I whisper, tears sliding down my face.
"I'm alive. I'm okay."
I lean in and kiss the last of his tears away, my lips trembling.
He jerks his hand back like the contact burned him.
"Rain," he says hoarsely, voice wrecked.
"I don't trust myself right now. Please."
I see everything in his eyes—the guilt, the fear, the self-loathing, the terror of what he almost lost.
And I step into it anyway.
"But I trust you," I say, quietly, completely.
I place his palm back between my legs.
His fingers cup me gently.
And I don't know if this is healing or destruction—but I know one thing with terrifying certainty:
I will do anything to keep him here.