Just sits there with her hands fisted in her lap, waiting.
That’s what does it.
Not the fear. The waiting.
Like she already knows how this goes. Like if I hit her, she’ll take it. If I grab her, she’ll go limp and let me drag her where I want.
Because somebody taught her the difference between surviving and fighting, and right now she’s picked the one that leaves her breathing.
The thought hits so hard it makes my teeth lock.
I hate that I can see it. I hate more that I know exactly who taught her.
“Get up.”
Her throat moves when she swallows.
But she does it. Slowly, carefully. Like standing hurts.
She steadies herself beside the couch, eyes flicking over my face like she’s trying to read what version of me walked back in here.
I don’t give her one.
“Come home.”
The words leave me flat. Final. Not loud, but there’s no room in them for anything else.
She stares at me.
For half a second I think she’s going to argue. Fight. Say something stupid enough to make this harder than it already is.
Instead her mouth parts and she says, “But Gabriel—”
That name grates through me I feel it in my bones.
“He’ll be handled.”
Her eyes search mine. I don’t know what she’s looking for.
Mercy. Certainty. A promise.
What she gets is me.
“Come. Home.”
Something in her face shifts. Not relief, not exactly.
But she nods.
I reach for her without thinking, hand closing around her upper arm.
Gentler than I mean to be. Firm enough that she knows I’m not asking a third time.
I walk her to the door. She comes. Shaken, but alive. That’s enough for tonight.
I open the door and guide her out into the hallway.
Vaska is still there.
