I imagine it in detail. The sounds he'd make. The way he'd beg—first with dignity, then without. How long I could keep him alive if I was careful. How long I could make him feel it.
The fantasy is so vivid I have to grip the sink again just to stay in my body.
Not yet.
The words taste like ash and the worst kind of cowardice known to man.
Not yet. But soon.
I hold onto that. Let it center me. Because if I don't have the promise of his death to carry me through, I'm going to do something right now that gets us all killed.
TWENTY-ONE
TRISTAN
They've moved Keira to a room. Brought in a nurse to tend to her wounds, and I'm not allowed near her since I got reassigned to night patrol while she's healing.
As if I'm just another body in rotation and didn't just watch her get carved to pieces.
The routine walk isn't doing anything to tame the beast inside me.
I go through the east wing, down the main corridor, past the locked door where my son sleeps.
Guarded by two men who have no idea who I am or what I'd do to them if they stood between me and that room.
I pause there longer than I should.
Cameras sweep the area every thirty seconds, and there are no blind spots. Two guards stationed at all times, both armed and alert.
Getting to him would require precision I don't have right now. Not with my hands still shaking and her blood still under my nails, no matter how hard I scrubbed.
He's so close.
Three floors is all that separate us. Three floors and a handful of men and a security system I could dismantle in my sleep.
But I can't do any of that until I figure out how to get them both out safely.
So I keep walking.
And I pretend the distance doesn't feel like dying.
When I turn the corner, I see Keira standing near the west staircase, speaking with a staff member.
She's out of her room too early, but even from this distance I can see she's barely holding herself together. Sleeves tugged past her wrists to hide what's underneath. Shoulders curled inward like she's trying to take up less space. Face drained of color, bruised shadows carved beneath her eyes.
When the staff member walks away, Keira's gaze flicks to the camera above her head. Then she turns and walks in the opposite direction.
I watch her count her steps. See her lips move as she maps the distance to the next hallway.
She's planning something.
Less than twelve hours ago, her captor shattered a vase and forced her to collect the shards with her bare hands. And she's already strategizing her next move.
I'm so fucking mad.
At Calder—for what he's done. What he keeps doing. What he'll do again tomorrow and the day after unless someone puts him in the ground.
At her—for needing to be strong enough to survive this. For making every assumption I've built over so many years feel like a fucking lie. For still being alive inside that shell when I spent years convincing myself she chose to disappear.
