Didn’t open her eyes. But her fingers moved. A fraction. A flicker. Recognition. I didn’t speak either. There was nothing to say. No words could matter here. Felt the heat of her leaking through my coat as I stood.
I didn’t look around. Didn’t check who saw. Didn’t care. My arms were full of betrayal. And blood. And her. And that meant I had enough.
The book would have to wait.
I carried her to the car without speaking. The streets didn’t stop me. The air didn’t shift. No one asked what I was doing.They didn’t need to. They saw my face. And they stepped back into their shadows.
The car door opened with the hush of leather and steel. I lowered her into the back seat like I was laying her into a tomb.
The hoodie clung to her—wet, twisted, red at the hem. The blood had seeped all the way through. Not just hers. Mine. Ours. It stained the places where we once touched, where she once leaned into me, asking nothing.
I covered her legs with my coat. Because if anyone looked into that car, they would not see her broken. They would not see her bruised. They would see a woman protected.
Owned.
Marked.
I drove. Didn’t check the rearview mirror. Didn’t look at her reflection. Didn’t need to. I could feel it. She was still warm. And she was still mine.
The clinic knew better than to ask questions. No nurses. No waiting. No signing in. Just concrete and tile and silence.
I walked through the back, her body limp in my arms. She didn't stir. Not even a whimper. The receptionist looked up—then down, immediately. Her face went pale.
They had a room ready. I laid her on the bed. Her breath hitched once when her back hit the sheets, but her eyes stayed shut.
I didn’t move. Just stood there. Watching. Her chest rose in shallow, stuttering pulls. Each breath like a cost she hadn’t budgeted for.
The doctor entered a moment later, gloves already snapped tight. He opened his mouth. I turned to him—slowly. He closed it.
I didn’t need words. My silence said enough. You touch her wrong—you die. You ask the wrong question—you bleed. You breathe too loud—you get fucking replaced.Got it?
At first, my fingers refused to let her go. Even after the nurse said they needed to examine her.
Even after the blood started drying against my arms. Even after she was wheeled behind those fucking doors. I just stood there. Hands flexing at my sides like they didn’t understand what not holding her felt like anymore.
I sat down eventually. Couldn’t remember when. Couldn’t feel the chair under me. Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. Thumb hovering. Not shaking. Just—deliberate.
I didn’t send a voice note. Didn’t call.
Just typed:
She sent me a pin. I found her in an alley. Broken. Breathing. Barely.
Saint Mercy Hospital. West Wing.
Come now.
I sent it to three people.
Barron.
Royal.
Loyal.
Then I dropped the phone face down on the chair beside me and leaned forward, elbows on my knees, fingers laced tight like prayer wasn’t something I did but was doing me.
The door opened twenty minutes later.
