“You are.” She touches my cheek. “You’re stronger than I ever was.”
“That’s not true. You survived worse. You lost everything. I wish you had talked to me, told me the truth.”
“I made mistakes, Violet. I was so obsessed with keeping you safe that I didn’t care if I hurt you. I just wanted you alive.”
I nod, my lips pressed together. “I get it.”
“I need time,” she admits. “I need time to figure out who I am without all that anger. But I meant what I said. I can’t stay here, not right now. Maybe not ever.”
“I understand.”
“But I don’t want to lose you, either.” Her voice breaks again. “You’re all I have left.”
“You’re not losing me,” I promise. “No matter where either of us goes, youwon’t lose me.”
She nods, pulling me into another hug. This one is gentler, more careful of my injuries, but no less pure. I close my eyes and savor it, this moment with my mother, knowing that everything is about to change.
When she draws back, there’s a resignation in her eyes that wasn’t there before. Acceptance, maybe. Or at least the beginnings of it.
“He loves you,” she says quietly. “I can see that, even if I don’t want to. And you love him.”
“I do.”
“Then I won’t stand in your way.” She brushes her thumb across my cheek, catching a stray tear. “But if he ever hurts you, if he ever makes you regret this choice, you come find me. You hear me?”
A smile tugs at my lips despite everything. “I hear you.”
“Good.” She settles back in her wheelchair, looking suddenly exhausted. “I should go rest. Let you rest, too.”
“Mom?” I catch her hand one more time. “Thank you. For everything. For raising me, for protecting me, for loving me even when it was hard.”
Her eyes fill with tears. “Oh, baby. Loving you was never hard. It was the easiest thing I ever did.”
She squeezes my hand once more, then wheels herself toward the door. Before she pushes through, she pauses and looks back at me.
“Be happy, Violet. You deserve it.”
Then, she’s gone, and I’m alone in the quiet clinic room, my heart full and aching at the same time.
A week passesbefore they discharge me, and in that time, I learn what it means to be truly seen. Darius visits every day. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we just exist together, and that’s enough.
My shoulder still aches when I move certain ways, but the healers say I’m recovering well. Better than they expected. My hybrid blood is working in my favor.
I move back into my penthouse. The one Darius arranged for meall those months ago, the one I swore I’d never return to when I thought he’d used me. Now it feels different. Like coming home instead of hiding.
Mom leaves for Ryker’s pack three days after I’m discharged. She hugs me tightly at the car, her eyes wet with tears, and makes me promise to call her every week. I promise. We’re both trying, both learning how to be in each other’s lives without all the pain between us.
Darius is busy. So busy, I sometimes go entire days without seeing him. He comes to the penthouse every night, slides into bed beside me, and wraps his arms around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. But in the middle of the night, I always wake to find him sitting up, his palm on my shoulder, checking that I’m still breathing. Sometimes, he’s shaking.
The first time it happened, I woke to find him with his fingers on my pulse point, counting heartbeats as if in prayer. He didn’t apologize. Just pulled me closer and buried his face in my hair. We both know some wounds take longer to heal than others.
I don’t say anything when it happens now. Just pull him back down and hold him until he falls asleep again.
I’m not the only one suffering. Whatever happened in that arena, whatever he felt when he thought he might lose me—it left a wound deeper than any bullet’s.
Right now, I’m curled up on the couch with Cinnamon asleep in my lap. She’s gotten bigger in the past week, her puppy paws too large for her body, her ears flopping when she runs. I stroke her soft fur and stare at nothing, thinking about everything and nothing at once.
The door opens at eight o’clock. I glance up.
