She nods, eyes half-shut. And then?—
She shifts forward and wraps her arms around my neck. Not in fear, but for grounding. I feel the shake of her body, the ragged edge of her breath. She's clinging to me,me.
I hold her tighter. Righteous fury dies in the force of her grip. In the realization that I’m no longer just protecting her. I’m breaking for her.
Rain drums the ruined car. Sirens arrive in distant wails. But in this moment, it’s all silent.
She looks up at me, bruised but fierce. “You hold too tight.”
I swallow. “Better that than letting go.”
She doesn’t argue. Instead, she buries her face deeper, and I rest my cheek against her hair—gritty, damp, utterly hers.
And as the world closes in—first responders, blood, rain—I know one thing:
I am unraveling. And it’s for her.
CHAPTER 15
ARIA DAWSON
Icome to in a cocoon of white noise—lights softly pulsing, the low hum of medical tech breathing alongside mine. My skin feels like raw silk draped over bruised ribs; every breath is a searing stab. The air smells antiseptic—clean but sterile, like a promise unkept.
I try to sit up. My fingers clutch at the crisp linen, mind willing my back upright. But a hot spike of agony curls through my side, stealing the breath from my lungs.
Aebon’s voice cuts through the haze.
“You’re awake.”
I jerk and meet his eyes—red-coiled storm held in silent dusk. He’s seated in the room’s corner, shoulders heavy, head tipped in quiet vigil.
I squint. The light—bright and full—reveals a smear of something dark on his forearm. Blood? I blink again. His suit sleeve’s frayed, damaged.
“What happened?” I rasp, voice metal-edged with pain.
He rises—slow as dusk’s tide—then kneels at my bedside. His proximity warps the space; the world outside this suite shrinks to a single pulse between us.
“You almost died,” he says softly, voice a low rumble that slides into my chest. “Because of me.”
I push the oxygen mask higher—my hand trembling. “Because of them,” I correct, eyes narrowing on the blood stain along his sleeve.
His gaze flicks to the dark smear then returns to mine. “But I held them off.”
My breath spasms. “You shouldn’t have.”
His head dips nearly to his knee, like he’s bracing for impact. “I couldn’t lose you.”
His words land like a confession made of fragments—steel and regret.
I swivel my torso, fingertips brushing his arm. I can’t bring myself to wipe off the blood. Instead I press harder. The fabric’s damp and warm with his risk.
“Maybe I should’ve died,” I whisper, voice distant. “Then I wouldn’t be here, broken ribs and paranoia.”
He flinches, as if the idea stung.
I meet his eyes. Full and dark. “Would that make it easier?”
He lifts a hand, finger trembling as it lingers near my cheek. Hesitates, then withdraws.
