The doctor spoke without looking at me. He spoke tohim.
“She’s cleared. No signs of concussion. She can walk with assistance. No stairs. Limit strain. Avoid stress.”
Loyal nodded once. No questions. No concern. No visible reaction.
“She’s in your care now,” the doctor said softly, as if Loyal was the mercy I’d been given.
But I didn’t feel saved. I felt handed over. Signed off. Shifted from one kind of possession to another.
Loyal stepped forward with a voice like cool steel. “Right,” he said. “Ready?”
I didn’t speak. Didn’t nod. Just stared into Wolfe’s dark unflinching eyes as he said nothing. Then I justmoved. Because I couldn’t stay in that room any longer.
My legs felt thin under me. Fragile. Like they might collapse if I questioned anything out loud. So I didn’t. I walked. Not because I was strong. Because I’d learned how to move when I was supposed to.
One foot in front of the other, resting against the railing before I pushed off, hedging to the front of the hospital.
Loyal opened the passenger door like this was just a favor he was doing for someone. Like this wasn’t blood and bruises stitched into my skin. I climbed in without asking where we were going.
I folded myself into the seat. Pulled my knees in, arms tucked close. I didn’t look up. Didn’t ask. I felt him before I saw him.
Wolfe.
The heat of him behind me. The slow, calculated sound of his boots on pavement. The weight of his stare pressed into the back of my neck even after the car door shut.
He hadn’t said a word since the doctor gave him the list of everything that had been done to me. Not one word. But I couldfeelit. The silence was worse than shouting. He didn’t look away from me. Not once.
The car was silent. No engine hum. No music. No breath between us. He drove like a soldier returning from war. And I sat like the weapon they’d brought home to clean.
We turned left onto a street I hadn’t driven down in years. The moment the tires turned, my body knew. My chest locked up. My stomach twisted.
No.
Not here.
Not—
The gates opened before we even reached them. Smooth. Silent. Like they knew I was coming. Like the house had been waiting.
Camille’s townhouse rose behind the hedges like a specter dressed in glass and ivy. Elegant. Cold. Still too beautiful to feel like a place where something had ended.
I wanted to scream. Wanted to turn my face to the window and tell Loyal to drive somewhere else—anywhere else. But I didn’t. Because my choices were gone. And my voice had stopped mattering.
He parked at the curb. Turned the engine off. Stepped out without a word. The front door opened like it had been unlocked this whole time. Not a creak. Not a groan. Just space parting for memory.
The air inside hit me first. Conditioned. Too cold. Sterile in a way Camille never was—but her scent lingered anyway. Flowers. Cinnamon. Something soft underneath it, like powdered sugar and jasmine.
She used to say cinnamon kept the shadows away. But the shadows were still here. They’d taken root. Everywhere.
Loyal didn’t say a word as I stepped past him. Didn’t gesture me inside. Didn’t follow. He just stood there. A silent figure in the doorway. A gatekeeper. Not letting me in.Returning me.
My shoes echoed on the tile. The lights were already on. Warm, soft, timed to perfection—like someone had walked through minutes before I arrived and whispered,Make it easy on her.
But it wasn’t.
The stillness wasn’t welcoming.
It was curated.
