Her expression turns serious. “You do not have to tell him today,” she assures me. “Not this minute, or before you have had time to process what this means for you. I will not say anything without your permission.”
“You won’t?” I search her face for any sign she might be lying to protect her brother.
“I promise,” she answers, and something in her tone convinces me she means it. “He is my brother, yes, but he is also a man who can react in ways that overwhelm people. You deserve a moment to find your footing before you face that storm.”
I exhale shakily, some of the suffocating pressure easing. “Thank you.”
She squeezes my shoulders. “You are not alone, Sage. Not with the baby and not with Hope. You have more allies than you think. We will keep this quiet until you are ready. When you decide to tell Luka, I will stand next to you if you want.”
I nod because my voice doesn’t trust itself. I place a hand flat over my abdomen, fingers splayed, and try to imagine something the size of a blueberry hiding beneath my palm.Protect what you can, my mother used to tell me.Even when you have nothing, you still have that.
I don’t know how I’m going to protect all of this. Hope. The baby. Whatever pieces of myself are left. I only know that I will. Even if it means standing in this house built out of Luka’s power and lying to him a little longer.
Anya follows the movement of my hand, her eyes softening. “Whatever happens next,” she reminds me quietly, “we face it one step at a time. For now, you rest. I will bring you some tea that will help your stomach.”
She turns toward the door. Before she reaches it, she looks back over her shoulder. “And Sage?”
“Yes?” My voice comes out hoarse.
“Do not let fear make all your decisions,” she urges. “Fear is loud, but it is not always right.”
The door closes behind her with a soft click.
I sit on the edge of the bed again, one hand pressed over my heart, the other still resting on my lower stomach, and listen to my pulse race under my palm. Some part of me wants to curl up into a ball and never move again. Instead, I draw in a breath that hurts on the way down and hold tight to the one truth I can claim right now. I’m still here, and I’m not done fighting.
10
LUKA
I stand outside Sage’s door and listen. The hallway is quiet at this hour, the thick carpet muffling my footsteps. Behind the door, I can just make out the soft whir of the air system, but nothing else. No pacing, muffled sobs, or restless movements.
Vega sits at my side, chin on his paws, and his dark eyes fixed on the seam of the door. Every now and then, he lifts his nose and pulls in a breath, as if smell alone can confirm what I need to know.
Sage is still here and still breathing. It should be enough, but it is not. I curl my hand into a fist against the urge to knock, open the door, and see her for myself. She sounded calm when she finally agreed to come to Seattle, but the calm was glass-thin. Panic waited under it, poised and ready to tear through the moment anything wavered.
She had every reason to panic. Hope is out there. Taken and being used as leverage. Every second she is not with us is another second in enemy territory.
“You are going to wear a path in the floor.”
Anya’s voice comes from behind me. I turn, and she is moving toward us with a tray in her hands. The porcelain cup rattles once against the saucer as she stops beside me.
“She drank,” Anya says before I can ask. “Most of it. And ate the crackers. She is asleep now.”
I glance down at the tray. The teacup is half empty, the inside ring stained a soft amber, and there are only crumbs left where the crackers were. It should make me feel better.
“Did she talk?” I ask.
Anya shakes her head, her dark hair gliding around her shoulders. “Not much. She asked about Hope. About what we know. And what we do not know. You have given her very little,brat.”
“I give her what I have,” I answer.
“Do you?” Her gaze cuts toward the door, then back to me. “Because from where she sits, it looks like her sister is gone. She has been forced into a place she does not know with people she did not choose. Her entire life turned inside out in a matter of weeks, and all she hears is that you are working on it.”
“She is safer here than she was in Colorado.”
“I did not say she was not safer,” Anya replies. “I said she is drowning.” She nods toward the door. “In fear. In guilt. And in the silence between your answers.”
Vega lets out a low sound under his breath. The dog is more honest than most men I know.
