But I don’t move.
Not yet.
I crouch again, elbows on my knees, head tilted as I listen to every tiny sound she makes.
Her breathing stutters.
Then steadies.
Then breaks again.
Her eyes squeeze shut tighter.
Another tear slips out.
She’s fighting something.
Something internal.
Something I didn’t cause but something I could fix.
“You’re miserable,” I whisper. “He doesn’t even hear you cry.”
Noah sleeps like a corpse—dead weight, oblivious, face slack with the false confidence of a man who thinks he’s won.
Pathetic.
My voice deepens, low as a growl.
“But I hear you,” I whisper near her temple. “Even now. Even here. Even with him in your bed.”
My knuckles brush the sheet near her arm—not touching her skin, but close enough my hand tingles with the restraint.
“You think I’m angry at you?” A low laugh escapes me, dark, soft, disbelieving. “I’m angry at him. For thinking he has something I didn’t give him permission to hold.”
Her lips tremble, forming a shape without sound.
I freeze.
It’s my name.
Her mouth shapes the syllables.
Silent.
Broken.
Instinctive.
My lungs burn.
“You still say it,” I whisper, leaning in so close I feel her breath on my jaw. “You still fucking say it, little sister.”
My eyes drag over the line of her throat, the way her pulse flutters beneath delicate skin.
Alive.
Soft.
