Snow scoffs. “You’re a dick.”
Nightshade doesn’t rise to it. He steps back and opens the door wider.
And we finally go in.
The room feels smallerwith all of us in it.
Not because of the square footage – it’s a decent hotel room, all muted greys and attempts at expensive neutrality but missing the mark slightly – but because of what it’s holding. Curtains half-drawn, the city outside reduced to a dull amber wash that doesn’t intrude on the bed.
Kayla sleeps curled on her side, hair loose and a little damp, breathing slow and even.
Real sleep.
The kind that settles deep enough to smooth the tension from her face without erasing it entirely. She looks intact in a way that makes my teeth itch, like the damage should be louder on her skin and somehow isn’t.
Nightshade takes the armchair by the window again without ceremony, one ankle resting over the opposite knee. He doesn’t sit like a guard. He sits like a fixture – something the room has adjusted itself around. His gaze flicks to each of us in turn, quick and assessing, then returns to Kayla.
Snow lowers his voice instinctively. “You didn’t have to lock us out.”
“Yes,” Nightshade replies calmly. “I did.”
Snow steps further into the room, careful not to crowd the bed. His eyes never leave her. “You don’t get to decide that alone.”
Nightshade looks at him properly then. “I decided to give her space to breathe without an audience.”
“That’s not the same thing,” Snow protests. “You shut us out.”
“I shut the door,” Nightshade replies. “There’s a difference.”
Hatchet moves without a sound, positioning himself between the door and the bed, broad shoulders angled just enough to block approach without making a display of it. Restraint, not threat.
Honey’s gaze drifts to Kayla. “She looks…okay.”
Nightshade’s mouth tightens a fraction. “She’s sleeping.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No,” Nightshade agrees. “It’s what you implied.”
I step in before Snow can push it further. “She’s stable,” I say quietly. “Breathing’s even. Pulse steady. No signs of chemical suppression.”
Snow turns on me. “You’re saying that like it explains something.”
“It does,” I reply. “It means whatever’s keeping her under right now is her own system, not a leash.”
“That doesn’t reassure me,” Honey mutters.
“It shouldn’t,” I say. “But it matters.”
Nightshade’s gaze flicks to me. “What else?”
“Healing markers are elevated,” I say. “Not dangerously. Just faster than baseline.”
Snow’s head snaps back to the bed. “Faster, how?”
“Bruising resolving ahead of expected timelines. Micro-trauma repairing efficiently.”
“That’s not normal.”
