She doesn’t answer right away. Just smooths the gauze, presses to make sure it holds. “Because I don’t want you to die.”
That’s it.
NotI care. Notyou matter.
Just the bare minimum.
Something in my chest caves in anyway.
When she finally meets my gaze, there’s a storm there she refuses to let loose. “I’m sorry you got hurt for me,” she says quietly. “And… thank you. For clearing my name.”
Then she’s gone.
I don’t stopher.
Another week passes, each day marked by small victories. The pain never fully leaves—just settles into a dull, constant ache—but I find I don’t mind it as much as I should. It keeps me grounded. Keeps me aware. A reminder of why I can’t afford to be weak. I force myself to move, to stretch, pushing through the discomfort even when my body protests. I refuse to be helpless any longer.
By the time I’m able to move around on my own, I’ve rebuilt my walls piece by piece, and wrapped myself in distance and control until it feels familiar again.Safer.I tell myself that keeping her at arm’s length is the only way to survive—that if I don’t let her in, she can’t hurt me the way she already has. I do everything on my own now. Dressing. Eating. Walking the length of the room just to test my limits. Still, the ache in my ribs lingers, a quiet warning of what happens when I let myself care too much.
Maverick arrives late in the evening, leaning against the doorframe like he’s been there all along. His gaze sweeps over me, taking in the way I hold myself, the stiffness in my movements, the careful control I’m forcing into every motion.
“You look like shit,” he says, stepping inside.
“Thanks for the update,” I mutter, lowering myself carefully into a chair.
He doesn’t sit. Just watches me for a moment before sighing. “You were right about Rinaldi’s men. They were lying in wait. The damage was bad, but the loss of life was small. Could’ve been worse.”
Something in my chest eases at that, even if I don’t let it show. “Cleanup?”
Mav shrugs. “Ongoing. The Order’s making sure there’s nothing left to tie back to us. It’s messy, but all in all, we came out ahead. Better than expected.”
He lingers after that, like there’s something else he wants to say, something sitting heavy on his tongue. In the end, he just exhales sharply and nods toward the door. “Rest up, Boss.”
When he’s gone, I lean back and stare at the ceiling. The ache in my ribs pulses, steady and insistent—a reminder of everything that’s happened. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That it shouldn’t. But if that were true, why does it feel like something more?Why does the thought of losing her feel like a wound deeper than any bullet?
And worse—does Maverick see it too?
I hate that he knows about my sister. Hate that he saw me weak, distracted, and unraveling in ways I never allow. I should’ve been sharper. More controlled. Instead, I let my grief bleed out in front of him, let it cloud my judgment. Does he think less of me now? Did he hesitate before calling meBoss?
Maybe he doesn’t see me the same way anymore.
The thought claws at me, bitter and unrelenting.
Tiny fractures in the armor I spent years perfecting.
Chapter 45
The Illusion of Choice
Violet
I stand by the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the city come to life below. The skyline shifts from the cold blues of dawn into the soft gold of morning, people moving like tiny figures in a world that keeps turning—oblivious to my imprisonment. I press my forehead to the glass, the cool surface grounding me as frustration simmers beneath my skin. Time has passed, but the anger hasn’t gone anywhere. It burns steady in my chest.
He won’t let me go.
The fever is gone, and so is the version of him I took care of. The delirious, broken man who clung to me like I was his lifeline has vanished, replaced by the Asher I first met—commanding, demanding, and insufferably smug. Controlled again. Untouchable.
And the worst part?
