The anger I’d held for years. The betrayal. The fear. They all cracked under the sight of him kneeling in the snow, broken, bloody, and begging.
Eric knelt beside me; voice low but steady. “Let me help him.”
But Olivier jerked away from him violently. “No! He’s watching and listening. He’ll kill her. He’ll kill us both.”
His panic spiked so sharply I felt it vibrate through his grip.
“Harmony,” Eric whispered, “step back. Please.”
“I can’t,” I breathed. “He needs help.”
“I needyou,” Olivier gasped, pulling me closer with whatever strength he had left. “He’s coming for you. I tried to stop him. I tried to fix it.”
A sob strangled through his chest. And then his eyes rolled back and his body slumped forward into my arms.
“Olivier!” I cried, lowering him into the snow.
Eric pressed two fingers to Olivier’s neck, his voice shifting into that calm, steady firefighter tone I’d only heard once before. “Pulse is thready. He’s losing heat fast. Harmony, keep his head supported.”
Eric continued working without hesitation, checking Olivier’s airway, lifting his chin slightly. “He’s breathing but shallow. We need to get him inside.”
When he spoke again, it wasn’t panic. It was training. I brushed hair from Olivier’s forehead with trembling fingers, a hot rush burning my eyes. Everything felt too fast, too loud. If he’d been hurt . . .If Ravenhill turned on him. . .If my brother really had tried to warn me. . .
“Eric,” I whispered, voice breaking. “He… he’s been trying to protect me this whole time.”
Eric didn’t answer. Not right away. And when he finally did, his voice was careful.
“Harmony… something about this isn’t making sense.” But I couldn’t process his words, not now. Not with Olivier limp in my lap, blood staining the snow around us. For the first time in years, I wasn’t afraidofhim. I was afraidforhim.
“Help me get him inside,” I whispered.
And we did, Eric was able to lift him. Pierre met us at the doorway, his expression shifting from confusion to horror the second he saw Olivier stretched between us.
“What happened?” he demanded, stepping aside as we dragged Olivier inside and lowered him onto the rug.
“He came out of the orchard,” I whispered. “He could barely stand.”
Becket rushed in from the back hallway, eyes widening. “Is he breathing?”
“Barely,” Eric said. “Dad, grab blankets. Harmony, stay with me. Don’t let his eyes close.”
Olivier shivered violently, his body curling in on itself. I reached instinctively for his hand, but Eric caught my wrist gently and shook his head. “Not yet. We don’t know what’s hurt.”
Becket knelt beside him, scanning bruises, muttering curses under his breath. “This isn’t a simple assault. These patterns show that whoever did this knew what they were doing.”
Olivier groaned, eyelids fluttering. “Don’t… don’t let him in…”
“Who?” Pierre pressed. “Who did this to you?”
Olivier tried to answer, but the words dissolved into guttural sounds. His fingers twitched toward me again, lost and frantic.
“He kept saying Ravenhill,” I whispered.
Silence snapped through the room. Becket sat back on his heels; jaw tight. “Then we have a bigger problem than we thought.”
My stomach dropped. “What does that mean?”
But no one answered fast enough. Eric stood, pulling me to my feet, placing his hands on my arms to steady me.
