My Savior

The Watcher

The lavender scent is softer now, almost too soft, like it's trying to lull me back into sleep. My head feels clearer than before, but heavy, as if every thought has to swim through syrup before it reaches me.

I glance at the IV pole again. The bag above me is nearly drained, the line tugging at my skin with every shift. A reminder that I'm tethered here, whether I like it or not.

Richard's words replay in my mind. You won't last the night.
Protective or threatening, it doesn't matter. Either way, it means I don't get to choose.

Unless I make myself.

Slowly, I peel the blanket back. The sheet whispers against my skin, loud in the silence. I ease one leg over the side of the bed, then the other, bracing myself against the mattress. I can feel the drugs are still affecting my body. My knees buckle immediately, sending a flash of weakness through me so sharp I almost collapse back onto the bed. I grit my teeth and force them to hold.

One shaky breath. Then another.

The floor is cold under my bare feet. A reminder that this is real and I'm not in some fever dream.

I shuffle toward the door, each step making my head pound harder. My hand hovers over the IV tubing. If I rip it out, I'll bleed. If I leave it, I'll drag it like a leash.

I test the handle. It clicks softly, but when I push, it doesn't budge. Locked. My chest tightens.

Not a hospital. Not a guest room. Not free.

A rush of dizziness makes me grip the knob tighter. My reflection stares back at me in the polished brass plate above the lock, pale, hollow-eyed, hair tangled. I barely recognize myself.

I think of Leah. Of her laugh. Where is she? Does she know what is going on? Is she behind another locked door like this one?

My strength gives way and I slump against the door, sliding down until I'm sitting on the floor, IV line trailing beside me. My pulse races in my ears, panic clawing up my throat.

I don't know what terrifies me more, that I am Richard's prisoner... or that some part of me almost feels safer here than outside.

The handle jerks suddenly. I scramble backward on the floor, heart leaping.

The door swings open and Richard fills the frame, broad shoulders, shadowed eyes, the kind of presence that makes the room smaller in an instant. His gaze drops to me, slumped against the door, IV line tugging at my arm.

His jaw tightens. "Callie."

There's no mistaking the edge in his voice. He strides forward, crouching in front of me, every movement sharp with restraint. "You can't be on the floor. You can't be pushing yourself like this."

"I just wanted—" My voice cracks. The words die before I can finish.

His hands hover, not touching, but close enough that I feel the heat of them. "You need to rest." The command is low, rough, as if he's telling himself as much as me. "It's important that you rest."

I shake my head, panic breaking through the thin wall of strength I'd tried to hold. "I don't even know if I can leave. I don't even know if I am allowed to leave." The words spill out fast, ragged. "That makes me a prisoner."

The silence after feels crushing.

For a moment, his face is unreadable. But then something flickers, something raw. His throat works like the words caused him to swallow.

He leans in closer, voice barely more than a whisper. "You're not my prisoner."

I want to believe him. God, I want to. But my body trembles, betraying the truth of how trapped I feel.

Richard finally reaches out, brushing his hand against my arm, careful of the IV. His eyes hold mine, and I see it, pain, regret, something that looks dangerously close to grief.

I realize, It breaks him, to see me afraid of him. But it doesn't change the way he gathers me up gently, carrying me back toward the bed. His arms are steady, even if his eyes aren't.

"You don't understand," he says quietly, more to himself than to me. "If keeping you here means you live... then I'll take your fear. For now."

He settles me back against the pillows, tucking the blanket around me like a vow.

And for the first time, I can't tell if the bars of this cage are meant to trap me... or shield me.

Richard's POV

She thinks she's a prisoner.

The words echo long after she's drifted into an uneasy sleep, her breath still shaky from the effort of fighting me. I sit in the shadowed corner of her room, unmoving, because if I let myself pace, I'll wear a hole through the floor.

I can't blame her. What has she seen? Woken up in a strange room, a needle in her arm, a man twice her size standing over her saying rest. If I were her, I'd be planning escape routes, too.

And yet, hearing it from her lips, hearing that she truly thinks I would cage her cuts deeper than anything Donovan or his men have thrown at me.

Because she doesn't know. She can't. The line between captivity and protection is razor thin, and I'm balancing on it for her sake.

Calvin's words replay in my head: We pulled footage. Donovan followed them from the restaurant to the nightclub. Then to your street.

Not a coincidence. Not a drunk whim. He tracked them, step for step. And if he had the nerve to tail them that openly, it means he thought someone had his back.

I glance down at my bandaged knuckles. They ache, but not as much as the thought of her terror. Not as much as the image of Donovan's smug grin down in the holding room. Not as much as the image of him on top of her.

I know him. I know his type. He isn't just a man who crossed a line at a party, he's connected. The ink on his arms, the crew slang that slipped into his threats, the way he taunted me like he thought he was untouchable. That kind of arrogance doesn't grow in isolation.

And if they wanted Callie once, they'll want her again.

That's the part she doesn't see yet. That's why she can't leave, not until I cut out the rot at its source.

Her face softens in sleep, a crease still etched between her brows like she's bracing for a blow. My chest tightens. I want to take that fear from her, but if I strip it away too soon, it'll get her killed.

So I sit. And I wait. And I plan.

Because she thinks she's my prisoner, but the truth is, I'm hers.