Love the Way You Lie (Stripped 1)

It feels like a dream.

I’m underwater. Lights and shadows dance in front of my eyes. Everything is muted, even the pain. But it’s there. And voices. I recognize that voice. She’s not talking to me, though. She’s far away.

“Clara,” I say, but it comes out like a croak. A rough sound, like rocks tumbling over each other.

She hears me anyway.

“Go back to sleep,” she says, and something cool and soft brushes over my forehead. It feels important, her saying that. It feels important the way she’s taking care of me, keeping me safe. Isn’t that my job?

Safe.

I have to make sure she?

??s safe. I fight against the water, but it’s so heavy and thick. The only things I can see are a sterile white ceiling. The only thing I can smell is the sharp tang of cleaning solution. I’m in a hospital bed.

“Everything’s fine.” Her voice is soothing. “Just rest.”

But I can’t rest if I’m worried about her. I could never rest. So tired. “Are you okay?” The words are still garbled but she answers me.

“I’m fine. And you are too. We made it out okay, because of you.”

Only then can I relax again. Only then can I breathe.

It’s like breaking the surface, coming up for air. Safe.

Her hand grasps mine, warm where I’m cold. I soak in her heat, basking in the rays of her. “I know you’re hurting,” she says softly. And even in my delirium I know she isn’t just talking about the physical pain. She’s talking about every cold glance on my body and every cruel word. She’s talking about being afraid. And I am afraid, just not for the same reasons I was before.

“Kip?” I ask, my voice rough.

“He’s not here right now. If you wait a minute I can—”

But the pull of the drugs and the pain and the tiredness are too strong. They drag me under, like an anchor tied to my ankles. I sink to the bottom, barely aware. I only know one thing. I may have lost Kip. I may not have ever really had him. But I have Clara back.

I set her free.

Chapter Eighteen

I wake up like coming up for air—suddenly and with a jolt. I’m upright in a bed, and there’s an ache in my side. The bullet. Byron. Kip.

It comes back to me in a rush, and I lie back down in the bed.

Close my eyes.

Wish I could be asleep again.

That ship has sailed. I peek one eye open and look around at the pale yellow curtains and the painting of ballet dancers on a barre. The floor is the color of cinnamon, the walls a soft taupe. The elements of the room chatter together, that’s how it feels. They’re friends and confidantes of each other, and my presence here feels intimate, not intrusive.

I’m not sure how much time passes like that, drifting, communing with doorknobs and drywall. I turn my head and face the window—and then I see it. Silhouetted by the orange glow is the Madonna from our motel room.

“Clara,” I whisper.

Something moves from the corner of the room. Kip.

My head is still a little woozy from whatever drugs I have in me, but I would recognize him anywhere. Even though he looks rougher for the wear, his eyes shadowed, his scruff darker. He’s blinking away sleep just like I am, except he was on a hard chair in the corner, and I was on the bed.

“You’re up,” he says, his voice gruff. “It’s time for another dose.”

“No.” I shake my head, ignoring the pain even that small movement causes. My hand is aching and bandaged. My side is on fire. “No drugs.”