Chapter 13 - The Night We Broke the Cage
The anger didn't break him; it cracked open the dam he had built around himself since the crash. By midnight, the high-rise was dead quiet except for the low hum of the servers in the basement. I was sitting at the corner of the marble desk finishing my shift notes when a muffled crash came from the private adjoining suite.
I dropped my pen and bolted through the doorway. Jonah had tried to transfer from his wheelchair to the bed unassisted and had fallen sideways, his legs tangled in the heavy duvet, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. The black silk shirt was soaked in cold sweat, and his tattooed arms trembled violently as he tried to push himself up against the bedside table.
"Don't move," I said, rushing forward and dropping to my knees beside him on the carpet.
"I can do it," he muttered through clenched teeth, his face pale, frustration bleeding into absolute despair. "I'm not... helpless."
"Stop fighting me for five seconds," I commanded, sliding my arms around his torso to bear the dead weight of his upper body while carefully untangling his legs from the fabric. "You're stubborn, not invincible. Let me help you."
For the first time since I walked through those double doors, Jonah stopped fighting. His head dropped forward against my shoulder, his breathing ragged against the fabric of my grey t-shirt. I could feel the violent trembling in his muscles—not just from the physical strain, but from the raw, unadulterated grief he had kept locked behind his teeth for eighteen months.
I hauled him up with every ounce of strength I possessed, guiding him backward until he collapsed onto the edge of the mattress. I didn't let go immediately. I stayed kneeling in front of him, my hands firmly gripping his forearms, feeling the heat radiating off his skin.
"Are you done trying to kill yourself for today?" I asked softly, my voice losing its sharp edge, replaced by a quiet, steady warmth.
Jonah looked down at me, his dark eyes shining with something he couldn't hide anymore. He reached out with one trembling hand, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of blonde hair away from my face, lingering for a fraction of a second near the small cut on my forehead.
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"You're entirely impossible, Stella Quinn," he whispered, his voice thick with exhaustion and a strange, profound relief.
"I know," I answered, not pulling away from his touch. "And you're the most difficult man in Manhattan. But we're remarkably good at surviving each other."
