Lars leans forward. “Does Lachlan know where she is?”
Zara shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t even know if he cared. Her mom kept her far away from him after they left. No contact. No photos. Just gone.”
My jaw tightens, every protective instinct in my body waking up all over again.
“Another Kavanagh,” I say, eyes narrowing.
Zara nods. “Maybe. But she’s not like him.”
“She still has his blood.”
“I have that same blood too.”
Her words are quiet, but they land like a goddamn anchor in the center of my chest.
“I want to find her,” she says. “I need to.”
I nod once, hand tightening around hers. “I’ll find her, baby. I swear.”
But in the back of my mind, one thought spirals through the fog—another Kavanagh. Unaccounted for.
And I have no idea whose side she’ll be on when we find her.
The morning sunfilters in through the slats of the hospital blinds, casting soft stripes of light across the pale blue walls and the foot of the bed. It’s quiet—no beeping machines, no echo of rushing nurses, just the soft hum of breath and the faint rustle of Enzo’s steady inhale and exhale from across the room.
He’s curled up on the vinyl couch that definitely wasn’t built for a man his size, one arm tucked under his head, the other draped protectively over his chest like he’s still dreaming about shielding me. His suit jacket is folded beneath him like a makeshift pillow, tie long gone, shirt untucked. There’s blood on his cuff. Mine. And he didn’t change.
My heart aches as I watch him sleep.
God, I love him.
I trace my fingers gently along my belly—still flat, but not empty—and wonder how something so small can shift the gravity of everything. I can’t imagine surviving a single breath without either of them.
Enzo stirs. Groans softly. Then his eyes flutter open, bleary but still sharp, like even half-asleep he’s assessing threats.
“Hey,” I whisper.
He sits up, his joints cracking in protest. “Are you okay?” His voice is gravel and sleep and worry, all wrapped in one.
“I’m fine.” I smile. “Better now.”
He crosses the room and leans over the bed, pressing hismouth to my forehead, then my cheek, then the corner of my lips, like he’s checking every inch of me. “I hate this place,” he mutters.
“I bet you do. You slept on a hospital couch for six hours. That’s love.”
“That’s me not trusting anyone else to keep you safe,” he says, brushing my hair behind my ear. “Also love. But mostly paranoia.”
Before I can tease him, the door swings open. Violette steps in, pristine as ever in a slate-gray blazer and pointed heels. She’s holding a massive leather tote that looks like it weighs more than I do. Lars trails in behind her, coffee in hand. He looks like he barely slept.
“Morning, sunshine,” Violette says breezily.
“Good morning, Violette. Lars, how are you this morning?”
He feigns a smile. “Don’t judge. It was my night off. I played poker at the club, won and celebrated.”
“Looks like you celebrated well.” Enzo laughs. “Was she worth the hangover?”
Lars’ eyes turn mischievous as he shrugs. “Not hungover, just didn’t get much sleep.”
