Barron walked in first?—
Like he owned the fucking building.
Just like he always did.
His coat was still half-buttoned, boots loud against the tile. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask. Just scanned my face once and nodded. Royal followed close behind, jaw tight. Loyal came last, quiet as a blade.
None of them said they were sorry. None of them asked what happened. Because they knew. Barron didn’t look at me. He looked at her. And stopped walking.
I saw it hit him. The bruises. The blood. The curve of her shoulder where the fabric stuck to her skin. He didn’t speak right away. Didn’t step forward. When he did, it wasn’t to help. It was to witness. To remember. So he could bury whoever did this the right way.
“I told her this city would eat her alive,” he muttered. Not to me. To her. Like she could still hear. “Maybe she’ll listen now.”
My hand clenched into a fist. Rage flared for a second. But it was long enough. He set something on the metal tray beside the bed.
A folded piece of silk. Pale. Soft.
Camille’s scarf.
“She wore this the last time she felt safe.”
I didn’t look at it. I didn’t need to. The weight of it settled over the room like a curse. The doctor returned. Cleared his throat.
Barron didn’t move.
“She’s not to be touched without gloves,” he said flatly. “If she wakes up and finds strange hands on her again, you’ll answer for it.”
The doctor nodded.
Barron added without even looking at him, “You don’t speak to her. You speak to me.” He nodded at me, voice sharper. “Or him. If you’re braver than you look.”
The doctor froze. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Smart man. Barron folded his arms.
We both stood there, saying nothing. Watching her breathe. Like we were timing it. Like we weren’t sure how many she had left. And if one more breath was stolen—someone would pay.
The doctor returned twenty minutes later. I hadn’t moved. Neither had Barron. The room was too quiet. Too heavy. The kind of quiet that coats your teeth. That makes everything taste like metal and finality.
He stood just inside the door. Clipboard in hand. Hesitant. Like he knew there was a right way to speak—and a thousand ways to die. Cleared his throat once. Then again. The second time wasn’t for volume. It was for courage.
“She’s got three cracked ribs,” the doctor said without looking up. “One of them’s fully broken.”
His voice was too calm. Too practiced. Like he was reading it off a chart instead of listing the damage done to her.
“Nasal fracture. Left shoulder dislocated. Four fingernails torn out.”
A pause. A breath.
“Deep bruising along her spine, her left thigh… and her wrists.”
Another pause.
“Where she was restrained.”
My jaw clenched. Hard enough I felt something shift. I didn’t speak. Didn’t trust what would come out if I did. But the words found their way anyway.
“Motherfuckers.”
His voice thinned. “We’ll monitor for internal bleeding.”
