Cast adjusts his grip, and I let my head fall against his shoulder, the fight bleeding out of me. “Just relax, baby. I’ve got you.”
“Coat,” Vincent says, yanking a heavy one from the hooks by the door. He drapes it over me, tucks it around my hips and shoulders, smooths the collar once at my throat. His fingers linger for half a heartbeat, then fall away.
Outside, a thin layer of snow has already skinned over the top step. Cast moves carefully, boot to concrete, boot to snow, testing his grip. The air outside is razor cold. It cuts the chemical taste out of my mouth. My breath steams. The cold stings theraw skin at my wrist where air sneaks under the coat, but it’s short lived.
The car idles at the curb, exhaust curling in slow gray ribbons beneath the bumper. Headlights cut through the trees, their beams softened by the fall of snow. Vincent opens the rear door, and warm air spills out to meet the cold. Cast climbs in after me, steady and careful, his hand still under my knees until he’s sure I won’t slip. He tucks the blanket tight around my legs, checks the bandage once more, then nods to Vincent. The door shuts with a solid thud, sealing the three of us inside the low hum of the heater and the faint rattle of snow on glass.
Cast keeps me against his chest, one arm locked beneath my knees, the other around my shoulders so I don’t jolt when the car hits ice. His warmth steadies me, heartbeat a slow, even drum under my cheek. Up front, Vincent drives like the world might break if he blinks—jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road ahead. I stare at the rearview mirror, waiting for him to look back, to see me, but he never does. When his gaze flicks up once, it lands on Cast’s arm instead, checking the wrap, then drops again. My wrist pulses with dull pain. The hum of the engine fills the silence. Snow swirls in the headlights like falling ash. Cast tightens his hold when I shiver and lowers his mouth near my ear.
“It’s a far drive home,” he murmurs. “Close your eyes. No one’s gonna touch you with me here.”
I close my eyes for a moment, long enough to slip into sleep. Long enough to believe him.
16
VINCENT
I don’t sleep.
The house stays dim—just the lamp by the stairs and the faint light over the stove. Snow outside throws a gray wash across the windows. The heat kicks on, off, then on again.
I walk the hall in slow loops. My socks whisper against the wood. My shoulder grazes the wall every time I turn. My hands won’t stay still—they keep finding things: her scarf on the hook, a smear of paint on the banister, the blanket she used on the couch. It smells like her hair. I fold it back and start pacing again.
Cast sits by the front window, a quiet outline in the low light. The chair is angled toward the door and the street beyond. One ankle rests on his knee, hands folded loose, but he’s not resting.
“She’s asleep,” he says evenly, his gaze fixed on the window. “Pulse steady. Breathing normal.”
“I know,” I answer, my voice hoarse.
“Then sit down,” he says, turning his head just enough to look at me.
“I can’t,” I mutter.
I stop at the doorway and glance at her again. She’s still on the couch, blanket tucked under her chin, hair damp at thetemples from the heat. There’s a cut on her wrist—the one Cast cleaned when we got home—and she’d winced the whole time, her breath catching every time the antiseptic touched her skin. Every flinch made mine crawl. And that’s not the worst part. There’s a faint bruise under her jaw, small but sharp, the imprint of what she went through, and I can’t unsee it. My stomach knots so hard it makes me sick.
She tried to talk to me when we first got home. She made jokes. Asked me to come closer. Kept offering these little pieces of softness I don’t fucking deserve. I wanted to answer her. I wanted to say her name, to let her know I was still here, but the guilt sits too thick in my chest. It’s like poison—if I let a single word out, it’ll spill and stain her too. So I kept moving instead. Checked the doors. The locks. The windows. Anything to keep from looking directly at her.
Now, standing here, I can tell she isn’t really asleep. Her breathing’s too shallow, uneven, her fingers twitching beneath the blanket like she’s trying to convince her body to stay still. She’s not truly resting—caught somewhere between exhaustion and fear, like if she lets herself slip too far under, she’ll wake up back there. Like this is the dream, and he still has her. That we never even made it in time.
I can feel her awareness, the faint tension that ripples through her when I shift my weight, the way her body knows I’m still here. She keeps trying to find me—to catch my gaze, to pull me back into the space she’s holding open for me—but I can’t. I can’t meet the same eyes that looked up at me while a man bled out at our feet. She’s alive because of me, but it doesn’t feel like saving. It feels like I almost killed her myself. Every mark on her skin, every tremor in her breath—those belong to me now. My fault. My doing. Every scar, every bruise, every ounce of pain is mine. I did that.
Fuck me.
I start pacing again. Back down the hall. Back to the kitchen.
Cast watches me a while longer before speaking again. “You know this isn’t helping her,” he says quietly.
“It’s not for her,” I snap, turning my back to him.
He tips his head once, acknowledging it. “Didn’t think so,” he says under his breath.
In the kitchen, I open the fridge. The light blinds me for a second. Food fills the shelves—ordinary things that look wrong now. I shut it and lean against the counter. My hands are shaking again. The memory keeps replaying in my muscles—the recoil, the flash, the silence after.
Cast steps into the doorway, arms crossed. “Drink some water,” he says. “You’ll drop if you don’t.”
“I’m fine,” I mutter, turning the tap. I fill a glass and down it fast. The water’s too cold, burns going down. I set the glass on the counter and wipe the ring it leaves with my sleeve.
“She was tied to a chair,” I say, voice cracking. “He made her paint him.”
