I know exactly what this is.
This is how it starts.
When you've been empty for too long, anything that makes you feel something feels dangerous and necessary at the same time. You don't reach for it because it's safe. You reach for it because you're starving.
Because numbness makes you careless, and part of you would rather fall apart than stay dead inside.
And even when you recognize it for what it is—just another way to lose yourself—you still don't stop.
I pull Hale close against my chest, breathing in the smell of his hair.
This right here is what matters. Not accidental touches or the delusional part of me that wants to believe a guard's silence means something more than surveillance.
I close my eyes and dream of him anyway.
When I wake, pale light leaks through the curtains, and Hale is still curled into me.
I hate myself for dreaming about him.
Not because it's wrong and this is no time for dreams.
But because it felt like coming home, and I don't get to have that anymore.
TWENTY-SIX
TRISTAN
Marchand summoned me to the front hall this morning.
No specific instructions. Just a curt nod toward the door and the assumption I'd follow like the trained dog he thinks I am.
"You'll be taking Mrs. Calder into town this morning. She has an appointment."
Alone with Keira.
"Anything I should know?" I lean into the French accent, letting it roll off my tongue thicker than usual.
"Routine checkup." He doesn't look up from his tablet. "Women stuff, I think. I don't know. Just don't let her out of your sight and make sure she's good and healthy. That's all the boss said. Otis will be your second."
Good and healthy.
Like she's a mare he's checking for breeding potential. To confirm her body is functioning the way he needs it to for a baby?
Over my dead fucking body.
She can't even see a doctor when she needs to. Can't make a single decision without his permission, his schedule, his approval. She's not livestock, but he treats her like she is. Another asset in hisportfolio. Something to be maintained, monitored, and eventually used.
The need to kill is getting harder to ignore as the days pass.
I focus on keeping my jaw loose, my hands still, and my expression perfectly blank. Wearing a mask this tight is proving nearly impossible here.
The anticipation builds until it's time to leave. The hunger growing stronger—and I'm about to be alone with her for the morning.
I'm not supposed to want her.
Now I'm behind the wheel of the SUV, knuckles bone-white against the leather, unable to stop myself from looking at her.
In the rearview mirror, Keira sits perfectly still. Hands folded in her lap. Gaze fixed on the window. The morning light catches the angles of her face, illuminating the shadows beneath her eyes, the tension in her jaw, the careful blankness she wears like armor.
