“No,” I whisper. And then the rest spills out in a rush. “No, I’m not...I put them all in danger, Locke. All of them. Liam, Sebastian, Theo, Poppy-”
My words dissolve into sobs before I can finish. He hushes me in gentle strokes of his hand through my hair, signaling someone behind him for supplies or simply silence.
“It’s alright, Harper. They’re safe. You’re safe,” he says, but even he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.
Sebastian steps in when Locke guides me toward him. His arms wrap around me in an embrace that’s warm but cautious, his touch gentler than it has been in weeks. He avoids the place Ares warned him about, choosing instead to cradle my back with careful hands as I tremble against him.
“Get her out of here,” Locke says quietly. A command softened by concern. “She’s drained. She shouldn’t see any more of this tonight.”
He squeezes my shoulder once more, shares a knowing nod with Sebastian, then returns to Anwen’s side, his voice lowered as he gives her the bare minimum, just enough to justify the chaos, not enough to expose the truth.
“Harper,” Liam calls, barely audible.
I pull away from Sebastian long enough to meet my brother’s gaze. He looks fragile. Alive, but fragile. “Visit me when you’re better,” he breathes.
I nod. Words would fail me anyway.
Sebastian guides me away from the bed, away from the blood and whispers and shaking hands. Away from the sight of Theo still bent over Liam, unable to step back, unable to let go.
I allow myself to be led out of the medical wing, every step heavier than the last. The hallway feels colder. Wider. Emptier. Because deep down, beneath the exhaustion and the ache in my bones, something claws for attention, a sense that tonight wasn’t an end.
Only the beginning.
And Liam’s death… his almost-death… was just the first tremor of what’s coming.
39
HARPER
The water stings as it flows down my back, each droplet cutting through raw skin like it knows where the worst of the damage is. I sit low in the tub, shoulders hunched, knees drawn in, but there’s no hiding from the burn. I don’t remember when I got here, when I stripped down, when the water stopped running red, but the bath is the first thing that’s touched me today without meaning to hurt. And gods, that’s enough to make me want to cry all over again.
I press my palm to the surface, dipping it beneath the heat before I lather soap into my skin. It foams quickly, and when I drag it across my chest, my ribs, my thighs, I bite down hard on my lip to keep the sound in. It crawls into every cut, every scrape, every split-open bruise. A punishment I didn't ask for, but one I’ve learned to sit still for.
The moment the pain crests, I throw my head back against the porcelain rim of the tub with a dull crack, eyes squeezing shut as tears break free. They slip down the sides of my face, blend into the bathwater, disappear like everything else. My heart aches with every shallow breath. There’s a pressure in my chest that won’t release, like grief caught between my ribs with nowhere to go.
Then, three soft knocks at the door.
I freeze, the sound dragging me from the dark spiral I’d let take root.
The door creaks open slowly, and I don’t even try to hide the way I shrink into the water, the way I flinch from thesound of the hinge. I don’t care who sees me like this. Not anymore.
“Harper,” Sebastian’s voice is low, uncertain, kind in a way that makes my chest ache worse. “Can I help you with anything?”
He doesn’t step inside right away. I can tell he’s hovering, standing just beyond the frame, unsure if I want to be seen. But the truth is, the last thing I want is to be alone.
“No, Seb. I’m fine,” I rasp, though my voice is ruined from crying, from screaming into my own hands. It’s a lie. It always is.
I hear the shift in his body, the way he hesitates again. But then I catch the soft rustle of fabric falling, his shirt hitting the floor, the low thud of a belt, the whisper of fabric being dragged down legs. He steps into the room slowly, the steam curling around him like it’s welcoming him in. He’s stripped down to nothing but his underwear, and the sight of him, barefoot, quiet, chest rising with uncertain breath, makes my throat tighten in a different way.
He doesn’t ask again.
He moves toward the tub, kneels beside it, his hands bracing on the edge as his hair falls into his face. It clings to his skin in damp strands before he pushes it back with one hand, and then that same hand reaches for me.
When his fingers touch my arm, I don’t pull away. I can’t. He’s warm, and I didn’t realize how cold I’d gone.
He slips into the water beside me, slow and careful, as if the water might bite him too. There’s not enough space for distance. His thigh brushes mine, the bare skin of his chest close enough that I feel his breath on my cheek. And when he settles, his eyes drag over me, not lustful, not horrified.Wrecked.
His hand finds my side.
