“I’m not going to let you drown in it,” I say. “In the silence. In the shame. In the things they tried to turn you into.”
He finally meets my gaze, and there’s something breaking open in his expression—something raw and soft and terrifying.
“I have no idea how to stop carrying it,” he says. “The weight. The guilt. It’s all I know.”
“Then we carry it together,” I whisper. “That’s how we make it lighter.”
15
CASSIAN
The wind’s settled again, not calm, just quiet in that calculating way that always feels worse than a storm. The kind of silence where even the dogs refuse to make noise, their ears flat, their eyes pinned to the tree line like they know the world’s about to crack open again. I can feel it too, crawling low along the edges of my skin, something deep and mean and familiar, dragging up old ghosts I thought I’d buried under enough snow to last a lifetime.
We’re breaking camp slow, no rush anymore. Not since the ambush yesterday. Not since she saw me shift halfway to the edge. Angie moves with purpose, bundling gear like it gives her something to hold on to. Her cheeks are red with cold, her lashes frosted over, and she still looks back at me like I’m worth trusting. Like I didn’t almost lose myself right in front of her. Like I didn’t almost prove every goddamn nightmare true.
I don’t speak. Not yet.
She doesn't press.
And that’s when I hear it.
That brittle electronic whine, the faint clicking static that doesn’t belong out here in the wild. I scan fast, senses spiking,and catch the glint of dull gray in the snow, tucked under a broken sled runner left behind in the fight. One of the mercs must’ve dropped it in the scramble, half-buried now beneath a drift that doesn’t know it's carrying poison.
It’s a sat-phone.
Old model. Military grade. Tinted screen flashing green.
I grab it, thumb pressing to the edge of the casing, and lift it to my ear, already knowing I should crush it without a second thought.
The line crackles, then comes the voice.
“Cassian.”
That name hits harder than a bullet. I haven’t heard it spoken like that in years. That tone. That drawl. Oil-slick and sharp like a needle dipped in honey. My stomach twists. My fingers curl tight around the edge of the device.
“Still breathing, I see,” the voice continues, smooth and slow, like he’s savoring it. “Good. I told them you wouldn’t die easy. Wouldn’t be any fun if you did.”
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, mock-sympathy dripping from every syllable. “You’re wondering how I found you. Took me a while. You’ve always been slippery. But turns out, even ghosts leave footprints when they get sentimental.”
I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just listen.
“I saw the footage,” Roman says, and that’s it. That’s the blade in the ribs. “Didn’t believe it at first. That shift. That flash in your eyes. But it’s you. No doubt. And she caught it, didn’t she? Your little documentary darling.”
He laughs.
“She’s talented, I’ll give her that. Brave, too. Walking side by side with you like she knows what you are and doesn’t care. Almost romantic. Almost sweet. But sweet things rot, Cassian. And I’ll be the one to peel the skin off that lie.”
I close my eyes, the fury crawling through me so thick I can barely keep still.
“I’m coming for you,” he says. “You’ll be alive when we take you. Don’t worry. We’ve got plans. Long-term ones. Doctors waiting. Curious men with thick glasses and no souls. They want to see how the bear works. Want to know if the monster’s as deep as it looks. You’ll answer their questions. Piece by piece.”
My breath turns into a snarl in my throat, not loud, but raw and shaking at the edges.
“You were mine once,” Roman whispers, voice dropping low like a secret. “And you’ll be mine again.”
That’s the last thing he says before I crush the phone in my hand, the plastic and metal cracking under the weight of fury I’ve held too long. I grind it into the snow under my boot until nothing’s left but shards and sparks and silence.
