The healer [Maze runner Newt x OC]

Chapter four

Grace sat silently on a wooden crate as the other survivors gathered in the camp, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her head felt heavy, her thoughts scattered by everything that had happened in the last few hours. She hadn't eaten or drunk much since her rescue, and every movement seemed to send sharp pain through her battered body.

Newt stood a few feet away, his eyes fixed on her. He couldn't stop looking, couldn't stop thinking about the haunted look in her eyes and the way she flinched at every sound. She needed help—proper help—but he knew Grace. She was stubborn, always pretending she was fine even when she was far from it.

"Grace," he said softly, stepping closer. She looked up, her dull eyes trying and failing to mask her exhaustion and pain. "We need to get you to the doctor."

She shook her head immediately, her voice hoarse as she muttered, "I'm fine."

"You're not," he countered gently, crouching in front of her to meet her gaze. His hands hovered just above hers, not daring to touch yet. "Please, love. Just... humor me, yeah?"

Her lips trembled, and for a moment, it looked like she might argue. But then she gave a small, reluctant nod. "Fine," she whispered.

The small medical tent was quiet, save for the soft murmurs of patients and the occasional clink of supplies. Newt walked in with Grace, his hand hovering protectively near her back as the camp's medic gestured for her to sit on the examination table.

"Can you take off your jacket and shirt for me?" the medic asked gently, pulling on a pair of gloves. Grace hesitated, her eyes flicking toward Newt.

"It's okay," he reassured her, though his voice was tight. "I'll be right here."

With trembling hands, Grace slid off Newt's jacket, followed by her tattered shirt, leaving her in just a sports bra and the worn shorts WICKED had issued her. The moment the fabric fell away, Newt's breath caught in his throat.

Her body was a patchwork of bruises, scrapes, and scars. Faded purple and yellow bruises overlapped fresh blue-black ones. Long, angry scratches crisscrossed her arms and legs, some barely healed, others still raw and red. Small puncture marks dotted her arms where blood had been drawn over and over again, and her ribs jutted out sharply, evidence of how little she'd been fed.

"Bloody hell..." Newt whispered, his voice barely audible.

Grace flinched at his reaction, instinctively wrapping her arms around herself to shield her battered body from view. "Don't," she murmured, her voice cracking. "Don't look at me like that."

Newt forced himself to move closer, his heart breaking with every step. He gently took her hands, pulling them away from where they tried to cover her stomach. "Grace," he said softly, his voice trembling with emotion. "This isn't your fault. None of it. Do you hear me?"

Tears welled in her eyes, and she turned her face away, unable to meet his gaze. The medic interrupted, speaking softly. "I'm going to need to examine her injuries. Some of these cuts look like they could get infected if they're not cleaned properly."

Newt nodded, but his focus never left Grace. "Do what you need to do," he said, then turned back to her. "I'll stay. I'll be right here the whole time."

As the medic began cleaning her wounds, Grace winced but didn't pull away. Newt sat by her side, his hand resting lightly on hers. He didn't say anything else—he didn't need to. His presence alone spoke volumes.

Every bruise, every scar he saw only fueled his anger toward WICKED. But for now, all that mattered was Grace. She was here. She was alive. And he wasn't going to let her out of his sight again.