Since before the courtroom.
Since before she stood there with her chin shaking and her voice breaking and told the world a lie that almost killed me.
And now?
Now Noah’s little chemical leash has her soft in my hold, head pressed against my shoulder, breath warm on my throat like a secret she didn’t mean to share.
I walk slowly through the house, boots soundless on polished wood, each step deliberate—like I’m strolling through a place that already belongs to me.
Because it does.
It belongs to me because she does.
Her fingers twitch weakly against my chest, clutching at nothing. Her head rolls slightly. She tries—pathetically, beautifully—to wake up, to form a word, to fight whatever Noah slipped into her veins.
“Easy,” I murmur, tightening my hold. “I’ve got you, little sister.”
That name—soft on my tongue, sharp in my chest—pulls a sound from her.
A tiny mumble. A slurred sigh.
“Kai…”
Jesus.
My pulse spikes so fast I have to grip her tighter just to stay steady.
I lean down, breath brushing her ear, voice dropping into something low and dangerous.
“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me, do you?”
Her lashes flutter, heavy and drugged, cheeks flushed, lips parted like she’s caught between sleep and drowning.
She’s never looked more breakable.
Never looked more mine.
I step into the living room and glance around, taking in the clean lines, the curated decor, the untouched surfaces. Everything about the place reeks of Noah’s control—perfect angles, matching colours, expensive emptiness.
It disgusts me.
“He keeps you like a display piece,” I mutter. “Pretty little thing in a pretty little box.”
Her head lolls slightly against my shoulder, and I adjust her carefully, almost gently.
“You’re not meant for cages,” I whisper, “no matter how shiny he buys them.”
She shifts, breath stuttering.
Her fingers slide weakly up my shirt, fist clenching fabric for one dizzy, desperate second.
It’s not strength.
It’s instinct.
She reaches for me even drugged out of her mind.
I laugh—quiet, breathless, dark.
