Her sister stirs, her eyelashes fluttering, and her voice barely more than a breath. “Sage?”
“I'm here,” Sage whispers, rushing to grab her hand. “I'm here, Hope. You're safe. You're in the hospital, but you're going to be okay.”
Hope's eyes open halfway, glassy and unfocused. Her pupils are still dilated from the medication. “What… what happened?”
“You had a seizure,” Sage explains, smiling through tears. Her entire face transforms, relief washing away the anger like rain. “But you're okay now. The doctors say you're stable.
Hope blinks slowly, her gaze drifting around the room until it lands on me. “Who's that?”
Sage hesitates, and I can see her mind working, trying to figure out how to explain my presence. “This is Luka. He… helped.”
Hope's mouth twitches weakly, something like a smirk tugging at her pale lips. “He looks… intense.”
Despite herself, Sage gives a breathless laugh. “You have no idea.”
Hope's eyelids droop again, exhaustion pulling her back toward sleep. “You always pick the intense ones.”
Her voice fades. Sage bends down, pressing her forehead to her sister's hand, shoulders shaking. I look away to give her privacy, though every sound cuts into me. The soft sobs, the whispered prayers, the desperate love in every breath. It burns through the ice I've built around myself, leaving cracks I don't know how to seal.
“You're all I have,” she whispers to her sleeping sister. “Please don't leave me. I can't do this without you.”
Sage lifts her head, her eyes red but blazing with anger again, as if fury is the only thing keeping her upright. “You can go now.”
I stay silent, watching her rebuild her walls brick by brick.
“Did you hear me?” she continues, her voice rising. “You've done enough. More than enough.”
I carefully step closer. “You think I came here to watch you break?”
“I think you came because you need to control everything. Because you can't stand the idea of something happening that you didn't orchestrate.”
“You think that's what this is?”
“What else would it be?” she whispers. “Because it sure as hell isn't compassion. Men like you don't do compassion.”
She's wrong, but I don't correct her. The word would sound foreign in my mouth, like a language I used to speak but forgot how to pronounce.
“You do not know what you're talking about,” I tell her.
“Oh, I do. You ruin everything you touch. It's like you're cursed, and everyone around you gets burned.”
The truth stings, mostly because I can't deny it. I've seen enough ruin to know it follows me like a shadow, everywhere I go.
She shakes her head, tears falling again. “You should leave. Just go. Walk out that door and never come back.”
I stare at her for a long moment, memorizing the way she looks right now, fierce and broken and more beautiful than anything I've ever seen. Then I step back. “You want me gone? Fine. But don't ever mistake distance for disinterest, Sage. You don't know what enemies you have or how far they'll go to get what they want.”
Her voice hardens. “And I don't want to know. Not from you. Not from anyone in your world.”
Something inside me splinters, but I keep my expression flat. Years of practice make it easy to hide. “Then take care of her and yourself. Because next time, I might not be close enough to get there first.”
Her breath hitches, but she doesn't answer. She just stands there, one hand still holding her sister's, the other pressed against her own chest as if she's trying to hold herself together physically.
I turn toward the door. For a second, I feel her gaze on me, burning between my shoulder blades. The sensation is almost physical, a heat that makes me want to turn back around. I pause, hand on the handle, and glance back. She's standing beside the bed, her sister's hand in hers, her profile framed by the glow of the monitor light. She looks fragile, furious, and heartbreakingly alive. And she's still the most dangerous thing I've ever seen. Not because of what she can do to my enemies, but because of what she's already done to me.
The hallway is too bright when I step out. The sound of wheels on tile, nurses moving with quiet coordination, and the distant overhead page calling for another doctor all blur into static. Vega is waiting at the exit. The dog sits perfectly still, as if born of shadow, his dark coat glinting under the lights. His ears perk when he sees me, and his head tilts slightly.
“Come,” I tell him.
