“Who said?” I manage, the words burning, acid-etched in my throat.
“The people who took us.” Her hands tremble at her sides. “They intercepted the plan. Donovan… and this woman. Tall. Blonde. Cold eyes. She said something about keeping me ‘fresh.’”
Alice. My gut twists, nausea curling in my stomach in coils of rusted wire. Cold sweat prickles at the base of my spine.
Off to the side, Phoenix goes still. Her description cracks something open in him. His posture stiffens just enough to notice, his jaw tightening with pressure held barely in check. But he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask. Just watches her with an intensity that cuts deep. A familiarity buried in silence. A recognition lived rather than explained.
Whatever it is, he masks it quickly. But not before I see it.
“They killed Cornelius,” I say, more to myself than her.
Her jaw trembles. “They shot him before we could even run. He told us to hide. That he’d stall them. But they knew. They knew where we’d be.”
I nod once, slow and pained. “Because Donovan was watching us.”
Her eyes fill. “You were supposed to come after us. But… they said you died. That there was no one left.”
“I tried.” My voice breaks on it. I don’t bother to hide it. “I got there too late. Cornelius was already dead. And you… you were just gone. Both of you.”
Her breath hitches. “You didn’t stop looking, did you?”
I shake my head. “Not for a single damn day.”
She closes the distance then. Launches into my chest, unable to hold herself back anymore. And I catch her. My arms wrap tight around her frame, and for the first time in years, I feel something inside me breathe.
She’s real. Her weight against me is solid and trembling. Her hair smells like clove and dust and something sweet I can’t name. Something from home. My chest caves around the weight of her sobs. The sound of her grief against my ribs is enough to unmake me.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” she sobs into my shirt.
I hold the back of her head, bury my face in her hair, and let my knees go weak. “I was scared you were gone, Amelia. That I’d never find you. I thought I failed you.”
“You didn’t,” she whispers. “You didn’t.”
We stay that way. Two frayed threads trying to stitch back what was torn. Something softer. Something stolen.
Eventually, she pulls back just enough to look at me, and there’s fire behind her tears now. She turns slightly and lifts her chin toward Phoenix. Everything about him is controlled.Posture relaxed but not loose, someone who’s learned how to hold power without flashing it.
His arms hang at his sides, hands loose, but there’s tension in the set of his shoulders. In the way he’s watching me. Not hostile. Not warm, either. Just… measured. Cataloging the moment for later.
“Phoenix is the one who helped me,” Amelia says, voice softer now, full of something that sounds of quiet awe and weight.
Phoenix inclines his head toward me—not a nod, not quite—but an acknowledgment. Silent. Heavy. His gaze doesn’t waver from mine.
Candace stiffens beside me. I feel the jolt ripple through her before I even look at her. When I do, her face is pale, eyes wide, locked on Phoenix the way someone stares at a puzzle they can’t solve. There’s no recognition in her expression, just… a pull. An ache she doesn’t understand. Her hand twitches, nearly reaching out, but stops short.
Amelia doesn’t notice. She steps between us slightly, her hand still wrapped around mine.
“This is my brother,” she says, eyes shining now. “Malachi. But I’ve called him Kai since I was little. He’s—” Her voice cracks. “He’s alive.”
Phoenix doesn’t react outwardly. But I see it. The way his breath catches almost imperceptibly. The flicker of something in his jaw. Relief. Or maybe something darker.
“Phoenix,” I say slowly, testing the name. “You saved her?”
He gives a single nod. “I did what needed to be done.”
Candace doesn’t look away. Not from him. For a second, neither do I. Because I don’t know who this man is yet. But I’m starting to understand how dangerous he might be to everyone but her.
Amelia swallows hard, the words she’s holding back tasting of blood.
