“How’s Bri doing?” he asks.
The question hits harder than anything he said in church.
I exhale slowly. “She’s home,” I say. “That’s something.”
Mason nods. “And?”
I rub a hand over the back of my neck. “She sleeps in short stretches. Wakes up disoriented. Sometimes she looks around like she’s expecting locked doors.” My jaw tightens. “She’s not broken, but she’s not okay either.”
Mason listens without interrupting.
“She throws up most mornings,” I add quietly. “Tries to play it off like it’s nothing.”
His gaze sharpens. “Doctor?”
“Not yet,” I say. “She asked for time. Needed to feel normal first. Shower. Her clothes. Her space.” I pause. “She’s scared, Mason. Not just from what they did to her. From what comes next.”
Mason straightens slightly. “And you?”
I don’t hesitate. “I’m not leaving her side.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smile. Approval.
“Good,” he says. “Because whatever Volkov does next, it won’t be quiet.”
I nod. “I know.”
Mason studies me for a long moment. “You did right by her,” he says finally. “At the docks. Bringing her home. Holding it together after.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “I didn’t hold it together. I just didn’t fall apart where anyone could see.”
Mason’s voice softens just a fraction. “That’s usually how it works.”
Silence settles between us, not awkward. Just heavy.
“She’s Iron Reaper family. Your old lady,” Mason says. “Which means whatever she needs, she gets. Protection. Space. Time.”
My chest tightens. “Thank you.”
He pushes off the desk. “You focus on her. Ghost and Riot will bring us what we need on Volkov. When it’s time, I’ll tell you.”
I nod. “I’ll be ready.”
“I know,” Mason says. He opens the door, ending the moment as cleanly as he started it. And all I can think about as I walk back down the hall is getting back to her.
THIRTY-SIX
BRI
I’m wearinga baggy t-shirt and leggings, my own clothes, soft and familiar and mine, but it doesn’t help the way my chest feels too tight, like I can’t get a full breath no matter how hard I try.
I’m free. I can go anywhere. I can do anything. I can walk out the door if I want. All I want, though, is to disappear into the dark bedroom and stay there.
I curl onto my side, facing the wall, trying to convince my body that it’s okay now. That I don’t have to be alert. That I don’t have to listen for footsteps or locks or voices outside the door. It doesn’t work.
The mattress dips behind me and I know it’s him before he even touches me. I hear boots hit the floor, the soft thud of his cut landing on the chair. Then he climbs into bed carefully, like he’s afraid to spook me, and presses his chest to my back. His arm slides around my waist, solid and warm. “Talk to me, baby,” he murmurs into my hair, before kissing the top of my head.
And that’s it. Something inside me cracks wide open. “I thought I killed you,” I whisper, my voice already breaking. “They told me you were dead. He told me over and over again that you were dead, that you bled out because of me.”
