"I look like shit, don't I?" I asked, catching a glimpse of my fractured reflection in the cracked mirror. Logan's mouth quirked in what might have been the ghost of a smile.
"We both do. But I don't think Cade's going to care much about our pretty faces right now." I turned on the tap again, splashing cold water on my face and rinsing the blood from my split lip. Logan did the same, wincing as the water hit the cut above his eye.
"We should probably apologise to the hospital for destroying their bathroom," I said, gesturing to the cracked mirror and the dented stall door. Logan shrugged.
"I'll have my father make a donation. It's the least the Bale family can do, considering."
I nodded, knowing that beneath the casual tone was a deep well of guilt. Nicholas Bale's resources had been instrumental in the search for Cade, but it hadn't been enough. Nothing had been enough until Lynch had connected the dots to Ivory Crest Manor. As we moved toward the door, I paused, a sudden thought stopping me in my tracks.
"Logan," I said, my voice low. "Those videos Damien made of her... we need to find them. All of them. And destroy every copy." Logan's expression hardened, his eyes going cold and deadly. "Already on it. I messaged Lynch on the way to the bathroom. Hehas a team combing through every computer, every device found at Ivory Crest. If those videos exist anywhere online, they'll find them and scrub them."
"And if they've already been distributed?" The possibility made me sick to my stomach.
"Then we hunt down every person who has them," Logan said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "And we’ll rip out their eyes for daring to even look at our girl that way." The promise hung between us, dark and binding. I nodded, satisfied. Whatever differences we had, whatever conflicts had driven us apart in the past, we were united in this: no one would hurt our Consort, our girl, again and live to tell about it.
We stepped out into the corridor, the sterile hospital lighting harsh after the dimmer bathroom. A nurse passing by gave us a concerned look, taking in our dishevelled appearance and the cuts on our faces, but she didn't stop. The Trivium's influence ensured that the staff knew not to ask too many questions.
"Ready?" Logan asked, pausing outside Cade's room. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what lay beyond that door. The broken girl who had somehow wormed her way into my heart, who had seen the darkness in me and hadn't turned away. Who had endured horrors that echoed my own and somehow survived.
"No," I admitted. "But I'm going in anyway." Logan nodded, understanding in his eyes.
"That's all any of us can do." He pushed open the door, and we stepped back into Cade's room together. Ryder looked up from his position beside her bed, his expression shifting from concern to confusion as he took in our battered appearances. But he didn't ask, just nodded slightly in acknowledgment of whatever silent communication passed between him and Logan.
Cade lay asleep, her breathing shallow but steady, her face pale against the stark white of the hospital pillows. The bruises stood out in stark relief, a map of suffering that made my hands clench into fists at my sides. But beneath the injuries, beneath the trauma, she was still Cade. Still, the fierce, stubborn woman who had faced down three Regents and refused to be broken.
I moved to the chair on the opposite side of her bed from Ryder, sitting down quietly so as not to disturb her rest. Without thinking, I reached out, my fingers hovering just above her hand, not quite touching. I was afraid, afraid that my touch would hurt her, afraid that it would trigger memories of hands that hadn't asked permission, afraid that I wasn't worthy of offering comfort when I had failed her so completely. But then her eyes fluttered open, those striking blue irises clouded with pain and medication but still unmistakably hers. She looked at me, really looked at me, and I saw recognition dawn, followed by relief so profound it stole my breath.
"Cole," she whispered, her voice a broken thing that tore at my heart. "You came back." The simple statement undid me. Of course, I came back. I would always come back for her, would walk through fire and face every demon in my past if it meant being by her side when she needed me.
"Always," I promised, my voice rough with emotion. I finally let my hand settle over hers, the touch feather-light but present. "I'm not going anywhere, Cade. Not ever again." A tear slipped down her cheek, cutting a path through the fading bruises.
"Thank you," she murmured, her fingers weakly curling around mine. I glanced up, meeting first Ryder's gaze, then Logan's. In that moment, the three of us, broken, damaged men with too much blood on our hands and too many shadows in our pasts, silently renewed our vow. We would be her shield, her sanctuary, her vengeance. We would stand between her andanything that sought to harm her, and we would burn the world to ash before we let her suffer again.
As Cade drifted back to sleep, her hand still in mine, I felt something shift inside me. The rage was still there, a banked fire waiting to be unleashed on those who had hurt her. The guilt remained, a weight I would carry for the rest of my days. But alongside them grew something else, a fierce, protective resolve that transcended my own trauma and focused solely on her healing. I couldn't undo what had been done to her, just as no one could undo what had been done to me. But I could be here now, holding her hand as she navigated the long, painful road to recovery. I could show her that survival was possible, that the darkness didn't have to define her. And when the time came for retribution, and it would come, I would make damn sure of that, I would be there for that too, channelling every ounce of my rage and pain into making Damien McIntyre and his accomplices pay for what they had done.
But for now, in this quiet hospital room with the snow falling softly outside the window, my only job was to be present. To be the steady hand holding hers, the voice that called her back from nightmares, the proof that she wasn't alone in the darkness. It wasn't enough. It could never be enough to erase what she had endured. But it was all I had to give, and I would give it without reservation, for as long as she needed.
"We've got you," I whispered, as much to myself as to her sleeping form. "You're not alone, Cade. Not anymore." The steady beep of the heart monitor provided a rhythm to my silent vow, a promise that would outlast guilt, outlast rage, outlast even the darkest memories that haunted us both.
We've got you. You're not alone. Not anymore.
Isat cross-legged on the hospital bed, watching Ryder meticulously fold a sweater that Logan had brought me a few days earlier. His movements were precise, almost mechanical, a stark contrast to his usual carefree demeanour. The clothes felt strange against my skin, too soft, too clean. Everything felt wrong, like I was wearing someone else's life.
"Rosa's planning a welcome home dinner," Ryder said, his voice deliberately light as he placed the sweater in the holdall bag. "Nothing fancy, just comfort food. She's been stress-cooking for days." I nodded, not trusting my voice. The thought of food still made my stomach clench. After weeks of near starvation, my body rejected anything more substantial than soup and applesauce. The doctors had assured me this was normal, that my appetite would return gradually, but nothing about this felt normal. Nothing would ever feel normal again.
"And Luce has been blowing up my phone," Ryder continued, filling the silence that stretched between us. "She's desperate to see you, but I told her to give you some space. Just until you're settled." His words washed over me, meaningless sounds that failed to penetrate the fog surrounding my mind.
My attention drifted to the stack of papers in my lap: discharge forms, follow-up appointments, therapy referrals. One line stood out starkly against the sterile white background:
"Diagnosis: Trauma – sexual and physical assault."
Seven words. Just seven clinical, impersonal words to encapsulate six weeks of hell. The inadequacy of it struck me as both absurd and nauseating. How could anyone distil what Damien had done to me into such a neat, sanitised phrase? Yet seeing it there in black and white, official and irrefutable, made my throat close up with a fresh wave of horror. This wasn't just a nightmare I could wake up from. This was my reality now.
I flipped through the other papers mechanically. Appointments for follow-up STI tests in six weeks. Contact information for Trivium-approved trauma therapists. Prescriptions for antibiotics to treat the lingering infection from the brand on my back, for pain medication, and for sleep aids to combat the nightmares that jolted me awake screaming every time I closed my eyes.
"Poison?" Ryder's voice broke through my thoughts. "You with me?" I looked up, forcing my features into something resembling attentiveness.
"Sorry. Just... processing." Ryder's expression softened, the concern in his blue eyes almost unbearable to witness.
