From what? I don't know. Maybe from me. Maybe from the world.
I turn away before he can say anything else.
But Hale's cries follow me all the way back to my room, lodged deep in my chest, where they make a home and stay long after today.
I spendhours in the shower, letting the water beat down on me while I cry. Everything else Ewan does to me I can handle, but when it comes to hurting Hale, I have no armor left.
By the time I finally turn the water off, my eyes are swollen and aching, my body wrung out like I've given up something vital. I step out, wrap myself in a towel, and feel a rush of relief when I realize the room is empty.
Now that we share a room, Ewan can appear whenever he wants. The absence feels like a small victory.
My heart skips a beat when I notice something sitting on my bedside table.
A small bundle of sea asters.
The same purple flowers that grew wild along the salt marshes near my grandmother's house in County Cork.
As I move closer, I realize they're freshly picked.
I didn't even know they grew here in Iceland.
Sea asters have always been my favorite. They're the only flowers stubborn enough to bloom where nothing else can—harsh ground and cliff edges, places where the wind hits hard enough to shove you sideways if you're not careful.
My grandmother always said they were survivors.
They remind me of someone else too…
"Where did you find these?" A small mug of water sits on the rickety table in the cabin. Tristan stands in the kitchen, staring at ingredients like they're written in a language he doesn't speak, completely lost and out of his element.
"Huh?"
"The sea asters."
He glances at me. "Saw them on my walk this morning. They're tough as hell—grow in places that would kill other flowers. Thought youmight?—"
"I do," I say quickly, smiling. "My grandmother's house was close to the marshes in Cork. I used to run through them as a kid and come home with purple-stained fingers. Sea asters always remind me of home."
When I look up, he's staring at me with an intensity that sends butterflies exploding through my stomach—wild and unfamiliar, like nothing I've ever felt before.
I don't touch the flowers right away.
I lock the door. Cross to the window. Stare out at the cliffs where the wind tears at the grass like it's trying to rip the earth apart.
Then I turn back to the bedside table, thinking about the kind of person who would leave something like this. Who would slip into my room, place them where I'd find them, and disappear without a trace.
The risk that takes inside these walls.
The message it sends is clear. Someone inside this house is watching me.
TWENTY-FOUR
TRISTAN
Not sure what made me want to follow Keira here to Ireland of all places, but the stillness of it feels…nice. There's no rush, no edge to our days—just open air and nothing else.
I spot the sea asters where the ground drops off, their purple petals punching through the dull stone. The wind whips everything else to shreds up here, but these hold on—stems twisted yet tough, roots digging in deep where weaker plants would've been ripped away long ago.
I crouch, fingers careful as I snap the stems free, one after another. The cold bites into my skin, numbing my hands, but I don't stop until I've got a handful of these wild, imperfect flowers.
