She lifts her face, her lashes clumped with water, and her lips trembling. Up close, I can see the abrasions on her cheekbone, the bruise forming along her jawline, and the raw terror that hasn't fully released its hold on her. She looks at me like I'm the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.
“You are safe now,” I tell her, holding her gaze. “I swear it.”
Her throat works as she swallows. Her eyes search mine for any hint of deception, or any possibility that this nightmare isn’t truly over. Whatever she finds there must satisfy her, because her expression loosens, a thin thread of trust weaving through her fear.
We reach the SUVs outside. The night air hits us with the chill of early winter, mist rising from the pavement in ghostly tendrils. Flashlights cut through the darkness as my men secure the perimeter, their shadows stretching long across the wet asphalt. The Seattle skyline glitters in the distance, indifferent to the violence that just unfolded.
Kolya flings open the back door of the lead vehicle. Emergency blankets are draped across the seats. Sage climbs in, cradling Hope with maternal protectiveness. I follow, sliding in beside them while Vega leaps in after us and sprawls protectively across their legs, his warm bulk providing comfort and security.
The convoy pulls away from the warehouse, engines rumbling, tires slicing through water and debris. I can hear Mishacoordinating with the other vehicles over the radio, ensuring our route is clear and our arrival at the estate is prepared for.
Inside the SUV, Sage holds Hope against her chest, her fingers smoothing her sister's damp hair with reverence and a deep, protective affection. Hope's breaths are even now, slower, and calmer. The sight softens Sage's expression for the first time since I found her in that warehouse. Some of the terror bleeds out of her features, replaced by exhausted relief.
“She is okay,” I whisper, brushing my thumb across her cheek. Her skin is cold. “You kept her alive.”
Her breath shudders. “I didn’t know if I could hold her together,” she whispers, her voice so faint it almost disappears beneath the road noise. “Everything inside me felt like it was breaking, but I just kept going because I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You did not freeze,” I tell her, lifting her chin until her eyes meet mine. “You walked through hell for her, and you didn’t falter. That is strength most people never find.”
Her eyes lift to mine, a mixture of disbelief and exhaustion, and she leans into my touch. Her eyes drift closed for a moment, and I let her rest, stealing whatever peace she can find in this brief journey home.
When we pull into the garage beneath the mansion, the clinic team is already waiting. Bright overhead lights spill across the polished floors as the double doors slide open with a hydraulic hiss. Anya stands at the front of the group, her dark hair braided, and her robe tied tight around her waist. The moment she sees Sage and Hope, her hand flies to her chest, relief flooding her face.
“Oh my god,” Anya breathes, stepping forward. Her voice cracks with emotion. Her eyes move over Sage, then Hope, then back again, cataloging every injury and sign of trauma. “Come inside. Quickly. The doctor is ready.”
Sage stands slowly, clinging to the door frame until I brace her with a hand on her back. Anya wraps an arm around her waist and guides her toward the clinic as nurses take Hope gently by the hand, transferring her to a waiting gurney.
Hope lets out a quiet whimper as they wheel her down the hall, but her eyes stay partially open, responsive and lucid as she follows the sound of Sage’s voice. The sound tears at me. This girl has been through hell because of her connection to me and this world I inhabit.
“I'm here,” Sage calls out softly, her voice stronger now that Hope is conscious. “I'm right behind you, Hope. I'm not leaving.”
Anya squeezes her shoulder. “She is safe now. You both are.”
The clinic's bright white walls, sterile equipment, and soft beeping monitors feel worlds apart from the warehouse's chaos. The air smells of antiseptic, clean linens, and faint eucalyptus from the diffuser on the counter. The warmth hits us immediately, driving away the lingering chill.
Hope is transferred to a bed with crisp white sheets. Nurses attach monitors, check vitals, and begin a neurological evaluation. They apply warm blankets and adjust the oxygen cannula over her nose. Her color is already improving under the heat lamps.
The doctor turns to Sage, his expression professional but kind. “Your turn.”
Sage shakes her head, already moving toward Hope's bedside. “No, she needs—a”
“You will not help her by passing out,” I interject, stepping closer and brushing my hand down her forearm. “Let him check you. And the baby.”
Her lips part, her eyes softening as if she finally understands I am not trying to control her. I am trying to take care of her. She nods slowly and sits on the exam table, wincing as her muscles protest the movement.
The doctor checks her reflexes with a small hammer, examines her bruises with gentle fingers, feels along her ribs for fractures, and checks her blood pressure with a cuff that hisses as it inflates. He asks her questions, and she answers with fading energy, her responses growing shorter as exhaustion sets in.
Then the doctor turns to me with a subtle nod. “She and the baby are stable. Exhausted and dehydrated, but unharmed.”
Sage inhales sharply, covering her mouth with her hand. Silent tears spill down the sides of her cheeks, hot and overflowing with relief that shakes her shoulders. She folds forward slightly, as if the news has stolen the last of her strength.
I step in front of her immediately and lower my forehead to hers, my hands framing her face.
She exhales a fragile, trembling whisper. “I thought I lost the baby. I thought?—”
“You didn't,” I answer softly. “You protected both of them,printsessa.”
Her hands clutch mine, her fingers still cold despite the warmth of the clinic. I rub small circles on the backs of her hands with my thumbs, willing warmth back into her skin.
