They leave and I’m alone with Cassian again.
He’s been quiet since Julian mentioned eliminating the Petrovs. Just sitting in his chair, holding my hand, watching me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he looks away.
“You should go home,” I tell him. “Shower. Sleep in an actual bed.”
“I’m fine here.”
“Cassian—”
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
“I’m not alone. There are nurses. Doctors. Security outside.”
“It’s not the same.”
“What are you afraid of?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then: “That you’ll have a nightmare and I won’t be here. That you’ll wake up scared and alone. That you’ll need me and I’ll be somewhere else.”
The honesty in his voice breaks something open in my chest.
“I have nightmares whether you’re here or not,” I say quietly. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m back in that basement. I hear Viktor’s voice. Feel the pipe hitting me. It doesn’t stop just because you’re sitting in that chair.”
“Then let me be here anyway. Even if I can’t stop them, at least you won’t wake up alone.”
I squeeze his hand. “Okay.”
The next day Nadia brings the boys. I hear them before I see them. Finn is in the hallway asking if Mam is awake. Liam is quieter, probably nervous about what he’s going to see.
Nadia opens the door and they both freeze in the doorway.
I know what they see—their mother in a hospital bed, face bruised, bandages everywhere, hooked up to machines. It’s not as bad as it was three days ago but it’s still bad enough.
“Hi, babies,” I say, trying to smile even though it pulls at the cut on my lip.
Finn’s eyes are huge. “You’re hurt.”
“I am. But I’m getting better.”
“Who hurt you?”
“Bad people. But they can’t hurt me anymore. Your da made sure of that.”
Both boys look at Cassian. He’s standing now, moving to give them space to approach me.
Liam comes closer first. Careful, like he’s afraid I might break if he gets too close. “Does it hurt?”
“A little. But the doctors are giving me medicine to help.”
“When are you coming home?”
“Soon. A few more days, maybe.”
Finn climbs onto the chair Cassian vacated. Stares at my face. At the bruises and bandages and stitches above my eyebrow. “You look like you got in a fight.”
“I did, kind of.”
“Did you win?”
