“You’re home. I’ve got you. I’m here.”
There’s a version of me that wants to burn the world to ash for what was almost done to her. There’s another version that wants to brand the world with my name so nothing except me will ever touch her again.
Instead, I content myself with counting the beats in her pulse where it rests against my wrist. I memorize the sound her breath makes when it snags and then decides to continue. How when she startles awake once, but not all the way, she finds my hand and drags it to her sternum like a weight to keep her anchored in the bed. “Don’t go,” she mumbles, voice small as a closed fist.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say.
She falls again, mouth soft. I hold.
When the doctor steps back in later, I lift my head but don’t move, otherwise.
“There’s one more thing,” I say, and the tone in my voice makes her look up at me instead of the chart in her hand. “There’s a device I need implanted—subcutaneous, a sort of passive GPS. You have it in your bag because I bought it ahead of time.”
Her eyebrows move—only a little. “That’s a medical procedure,” she says, neutral. “I need her consent.”
“I have consent,” I say, and it tastes like a lie even though I can argue it ten ways on a boardroom whiteboard. “She gave it before, in principle. She’ll give it again.”
“But she’s asleep,” the doctor says.
“She’s alive,” I say. “And I intend to make sure she stays that way.”
We hold each other’s eyes long enough for the ethics of the procedure to lay their weapons down. She sighs. “Her neck,” she says. “It’ll leave a literal hairline scar and a headache for a day or so.”
I nod.
She preps quickly, cleaning a small on the back of Phoenix’s neck. Phoenix doesn’t stir. I keep my arms around her and feel her tense minutely when the needle goes in. I don’t say anything as I watch the doctor implant the tiny device.
When it’s done, the doctor tapes a square of gauze and writes instructions on a card in looping handwriting that looks like it belongs to a socialite rather than a PhD. “She can be furious with you in the morning,” she says, not unkindly. “But I suppose better furious than missing or dead.”
“I’ll make sure nothing blows back on you.”
Atticus appears in the doorway. He reads the scene in one pass—the gauze, the doctor’s face, my jaw. His mouth tightens.
“She won’t like that,” he says.
“She can’t be angry if she’s not alive,” I answer, eyes on Phoenix. “That’s all that matters.”
He doesn’t argue. He also doesn’t agree. I don’t really care.
Outside, the ocean breathes in and out, and the house holds the four of us like we’ve always needed to be held: together, inevitable, relentless.
Phoenix sleeps. I can’t. I count her breaths and make a list in my head of men who owe me vengeance I plant to collect with interest, and somewhere around number seven, she sighs in her sleep and turns toward me like there’s only one place in the world that makes sense.
“I’ve got you,” I tell her again, and I make it a vow I can’t take back.
She’s warm against me, small breaths damp in my shirt. I fit my forearm under her ribs, palm spread, as if I can keep her in the world with this single handhold.
“Con.” Her voice is rough, sleep-heavy. Hers.
“I’m here,” I say into her hair.
Memory flickers behind her eyes and then breaks when I tighten, not to pin, just to saystay. She presses back, testing me. I don’t push. I let her decide the distance.
“Don’t go,” she mumbles. It’s not a plea. A demand.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
She turns under the blanket until she faces me. In the low glow of the lamp I left burning, I can see every scrape and bruise. She touches my jaw with slow fingers, feels the stubble I didn’tbother to shave, traces my mouth. My eyes close on their own, the touch landing like salve and punishment at once.
