“That doesn’t change the outcome.”
“You’re a factor. You’re not the cause. Elise had been struggling since before you met her. James made his ownchoices—years of them. You didn’t find her another dom. You didn’t put the gun in his hand.”
“I might as well have.”
“Bullshit.” The word was flat, hard. “You want to spend more time in that cage? Fine. But call it what it is.”
“And that is?”
“Cowardice.”
“You don’t understand?—”
“I understand perfectly. You’re scared. You found two people who actually matter to you, and now, you’re terrified because caring about someone means you might lose them. So you’re trying to lose them first, on your own terms, so it hurts less.”
“That’s not?—”
“That’s exactly what it is. I’ve watched you. Preemptive strikes against anyone who got too close.” He held my gaze. “It doesn’t work, Kiernan. It only means you end up alone and miserable.”
I didn’t have an answer for that. At least not one he wouldn’t interrupt again.
“Kiernan, you have to?—”
“And if Oliver and Ophelia break?” My voice came out rough.
“Then, you grieve.” His voice softened. “Like the rest of us. You grieve, and you survive it, and you keep going. That’s what living costs.”
“I don’t know if I can do it again.”
“Stop making their choices for them.” He stood but paused at the door. “They’re not leaving. Figure out how to live with that.”
He left, and the room felt empty.
Machines beeped their steady rhythm. The window showed gray sky fading to darker gray. The chair Oliver had occupied was empty. So was the one where Ophelia had slept. The corridor outside was silent—no footsteps, no voices, no indication that anyone was coming back.
This was what I wanted. Space. Distance. Room to think without Oliver’s sharp gaze dissecting my every expression, without Ophelia’s hand in mine, making it impossible to remember why I needed to let go.
So why did I feel more alone than I ever had in my life? Why couldn’t I get past it like I always did? Why couldn’t I see being on my own as a good thing anymore?
I stared at the ceiling. Counted the tiles. Lost count. Started over.
The cardigan was still in my hand. I could set it on the chair, or the windowsill, or the floor. I could prove to myself that I was still capable of releasing something.
My fingers curled deeper into the wool instead.
The silence pressed in. Not a peaceful silence. Not the comfortable quiet of being alone by choice. This was absence. This was the negative space where two people used to be.
I’d spent years cultivating solitude. I’d gotten good at it—at eating alone, sleeping alone, existing in the spaces between human contact without feeling the gaps. I’d convinced myself the emptiness was peace.
It wasn’t. It was numbness. And now, Oliver and Ophelia had woken up nerves I’d thought were dead.
Now, the silence hurt.
Ophelia returnedwith tea she didn’t drink. Oliver came back and reclaimed his post by the window. The evening deepened into night, and eventually, they both dozed—Ophelia in the chair, Oliver on the narrow bench beneath the window. Neither of them willing to go farther than a few feet from my bed.
They slept.
Oliver’s face had softened, the fury and fear smoothed away. Ophelia’s hand had slipped off the armrest, hanging loose. They looked exhausted, like they’d been through hell. They also looked like they weren’t going anywhere.
