“Oh.”Cleo exhales, the single syllable folding into the room.“How is she?Are her and Rod still ...together?”
I go to my side of the closet and fish out the photo of Arlo and Barret I keep in there.It’s framed and ...reminds me that this is the moment Barret believed there could be life—a new beginning.And fuck if I’m not trying to create it for him, for Cleo, and me too.
I bring it back like offering a tide that won’t break.I pass it across the coffee table to Cleo.
“Meet Arlo—your nephew.”The name tastes like something holy and ordinary at once.“Kit and Roderick miss you.They keep hoping you’ll come home.”
“They don’t know about—” Cleo starts, reaching for the picture with hands that tremble.
“Dorian?Nope.”I shake my head.“Only Rhodes and Alfie know about the asshole and that you’re safe.We haven’t told anyone where you’re staying—or that you’re with us.”
She bites, “I mean, Alfie knew I was with Dorian.”
“He had no idea how he was treating you,” I say, the memory hot behind my ribs.I can still see the dull shock on Alfie’s face when I pulled him aside and tried to explain.“After I told him—” My mouth shuts around the rest.The memory knots in my throat.It’s a tangle of regrets and mercies that nobody wants to unravel tonight.
Alfie was key to getting her back.He’s now under surveillance with three bodyguards in case Dorian gets any ideas.I told him to leave the country so I could get him to a safe place, but he says that it’ll make things suspicious.He swears he’s a good actor who can continue living a normal life and giving zero fucks about his sister.
“How did you know?”Cleo asks.
“You don’t think I feel it when my own heart is bleeding?”My voice is rough, low, meant only for her.“The moment I saw you, I knew something was broken.I just didn’t know where it was coming from.So, I dug into Dorian ...and what I found—fuck—I wish I hadn’t been right.”
My breath skitters.I have to turn away for a second because the air in my lungs feels thin, constricting like a fist I can’t pry open.The pictures.The footage.Names and faces that should never have been there.I cough, the sound half laugh and half sob, and brace myself against the arm of the chair while the room waits.
“I told you not to watch the videos,” Barret says, voice low and rough.“That fucked you for the rest of your life.”
Cleo frowns.“What videos?”
“Mason Bradley,” Barret says.“One of the men who helped me rescue you.He hacked into Dorian’s system, including the building cameras.”
“The ones in the apartment?”she whispers, like the word itself might call them forward.
I nod.Her shoulders fold inward, a paper figure collapsing.Her hands fly to her temples.She draws her knees up, retreating into herself in a way that makes everything around us hush.
“Dreams,” she says, the safe word falling out brittle and small.It catches the room; the sound loosens something raw inside her.
Barret is the first to move, stepping back, palms raised slightly, signaling space.I shift with him, giving her room, every instinct screaming at me to hold her but knowing this is her boundary.The silence stretches—slow, endless—until her breathing steadies, until the tremor in her hands eases just enough for her to lift her face again.
“How do we help?”I ask quietly.
“You—us.”Barret’s voice tightens, edges hard as wire.His jaw flexes as he leans forward, the promise in his words as sharp as a drawn blade.“We’re going to make him pay.”
“He’ll find me.He’ll find us and—” Cleo’s sentence unravels into fear.
“You’re safe, Cleo.”My voice is grounded, certain, every word meant to hold her together.“That’s why you’re here.Nothing touches you now—not while we’re here and not ever.”
“Is that why we’re on this island?”Her voice is a small, incredulous thing.
I nod.“Yeah.I began building it years ago, so we could breathe when we were together.When it was time to pull you out, Arthur and his son said this was the safest place to keep you while we figured the rest out.”
She presses her forehead into her palms and rocks once, like trying to squeeze something out of her chest.“I don’t know what to say.I don’t know how to feel.”
“Can I—” I start, and nearly stop because the moment she lets me touch her, I know I won’t be able to let go.Even if she asked me to leave, I’d stay.
I look at Barret, seeing if he thinks I’m going too far.“What if I can’t let her go?”My voice breaks on the question.
“Fuck,” he says, because there it is—the truth that scares us.“Can he hold you?”
Cleo nods, a shy, tiny motion of surrender and trust.
