"Read it," she whispered. "Please. I like your voice, and it’s for you."
I took the paper. The handwriting was small but erratic.
He didn't come with armor.Didn't come with a sword.He came with hands that didn't hurtAnd eyes that didn't look away.
I read it twice. Three times. My throat felt like it was closing. I was now even more convinced her sister wasn’t the poet. Olivia didn't have this kind of soul.
"Did you write this?"
She nodded against my chest.
"It’s beautiful, Chloe."
A small sound—half-laugh, half-sob—left her. I set the paper aside and cupped her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing the salt from her cheeks. I was terrified she might shatter, but I couldn't stop myself from holding her. "What’s really going on in this house, Chloe? Who did this to the room?"
Something flickered in her eyes. I couldn't read it. She shook her head and tried to pull away.
"It doesn't matter," she whispered, her voice hardening. "You should go."
"I'm not leaving you here." I tightened my grip on her waist, pulling her back against me. "Not like this."
"You have to!" She shoved against my chest, her strength surprising me as she scrambled to her feet, stepping back into the shadows. "If they find you here—if they see you with me—they'll move me. Somewhere you can't find me. Somewhere with no windows." Her voice cracked on the last word. "You should go."
"What do you mean,move you? Just tell me, Chloe. I can protect you." I stood up, my shadow looking too large against the wall.
"Nobody can protect me," she shrieked softly, her eyes wide and wild. "Please! Just go!"
I crossed the distance between us in two strides, trapping her between the wall and my body. I grabbed her wrists.
"I’m not leaving you here," I said again, slower this time. I needed her to understand that I was offering her help—real help.
She looked up at me, and for a moment—just a moment—I saw the girl behind the mask. She was broken but defiant.
"Then come back tomorrow," she whispered, her resolve breaking as she dropped her head against my chest. "But go now. Please. I’m so tired."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to drag her out. But I saw the fear in her eyes—real, bone-deep terror. I couldn't be impulsive when I had no idea what the Landrys were truly capable of.
I reached out, catching her battered hands in mine. They were cold, the skin raw.
"Can I at least help with your hands?" I didn't ask why they were bloody; I could see the punch marks on the wall. Something had set her off, a rage so big it had exploded.
She shook her head no, trying to tuck her hands behind her back.
"At least promise me you’ll take care of them," I insisted, my voice thick with a protectiveness I didn't know I possessed. "Do you have an emergency kit? Something to clean the cuts?"
She looked at her palms, then back at me, a small, sad smile touching her lips. "I have what I need, Killian. I've had to be my own doctor for a long time."
I leaned in and pressed my lips to her forehead. Just once. Just long enough for her to feel the heat of my promise.
"Tomorrow," I said.
Then I left.
I locked the door back, leaving the key where I found it. The walk back to my room was a blur. The house was full of people sleeping peacefully while she bled in an attic. It made me want to raze the entire place with them in it.
I didn't sleep that night. The house felt different now—strident, dangerous. I had been in less hostile territories in war zones. I felt different, too—like I’d crossed a line I couldn’t uncross.
And for the first time since she fell out of that tree, I stopped trying to figure out what game she was playing. I was trying to figure out why I wanted to stay in it until the very end and help her win it.
