My eyes opened. The light was too bright, and shapes swam in my vision, but I turned my head toward his voice. Recognition came slowly—his face, exhausted and drawn, watching me fiercely.
“You’re in hospital,” Oliver said. “You’re safe. Take it slow.”
Ophelia sat beside my bed with her hand wrapped around mine. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her hair hung lank in a messy knot. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days, but she was still the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
Relief from knowing they were both okay hit so hard my vision blurred. My chest seized, and for a moment, I couldn’t tell if I was breathing or sobbing. I thanked a god I wasn’t sure I believed in that James hadn’t fired again. They were here and whole.
I couldn’t speak. So I threaded my fingers through hers instead. Her face changed when she realized what I was doing—when she realized I wasn’t pulling away.
For years, I’d kept everyone out, maintaining a controlled distance, never letting anyone close enough to see the ugly parts. I’d built walls so high I’d forgotten there was anything behind them. And now, a woman I hadn’tknown six months ago was holding my hand, and I was choosing to let her. I was choosing to hold on.
My eyes burned. I blinked and felt wetness slide down my temple toward the pillow.
I could have turned my head. Could have closed my eyes and pretended it wasn’t happening. That’s what I would have done a month ago. That’s what I’d always done—hidden the weakness, masked the vulnerability, maintained the illusion of control even when everything was falling apart.
I let it fall. I let them see.
Something unknotted in my chest. Something I’d been holding so tight for so long I’d forgotten it was there.
“Kiernan.” Ophelia’s voice cracked on my name, and she stroked my face. “Don’t try to talk yet.” She reached for a cup on the bedside table and brought a straw to my lips. “Small sips.”
The water tasted lukewarm and metallic. I managed two swallows before my throat closed up. She set the cup down with unsteady hands.
Oliver hadn’t stirred from his chair, but his face had changed. He looked away, then back, and the warmth was gone. Now, he looked furious.
“Kiernan.” His voice came out rough. He tried again. “Do you have any idea—” He couldn’t finish. He stood and crossed to the bed, his hands gripping the rail until his knuckles went white. “You stepped in front of a fucking bullet.”
I opened my mouth to respond and then closed it because there was no argument to make. I had done exactly that.
“You’re not expendable.” His tone grew louder. “You can’t decide you matter less and leave us to?—”
His voice broke, and he looked away, fighting for control.
“We’re not going anywhere.” Ophelia gripped my hand. “So don’t bother trying to make us.”
I wanted to argue. The words lined up in my head—you should go, you should run—but my body wouldn’t cooperate. My throat was raw and useless. My shoulder throbbed with every heartbeat. And my fingers curled tighter around Ophelia’s instead of letting go.
I closed my eyes. I was too weak to fight them right now.
I drifted after that.Sometimes, Ophelia was there; sometimes, Oliver; sometimes, they were speaking to each other in low voices I couldn’t follow.
The next time I woke fully, the light had changed to flat gray evening. Oliver sat beside my bed, and Ophelia was curled up in the chair he’d vacated, asleep.
“You’re more alert,” Oliver said.
I swallowed. My throat still ached, but the words came easier now. “How long was I out of it?”
“Your surgery was yesterday. You’ve been in and out since.”
An entire day lost to the fog. But the memories were clearer now—the basement, James’ gun, Oliver and Ophelia bound and gagged. The way James had looked at me with grief and betrayal instead of hate after seven years of believing I’d destroyed the woman he loved. And I had. Maybe not the way he thought, but the result was the same.
“James.” My voice came out hoarse. “What happened to him?”
Oliver’s brow furrowed. “He’s dead.”
“The second shot,” I said.
“After you went down. He turned the gun on himself.”
