On my way home.
Quinn
I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t stress when you can’t find Nyra. I took her to my apartment.
Raffael double-parks out the front of my building, oblivious to the vehicles struggling to pass. “Will you let me walk you?—”
I release my belt and escape his car, not waiting for him to finish.
I cross the pavement toward the front doors, vaguely aware of strangers’ curious glances, acutely aware I’m dressed in nothing but Raffael’s shirt.
Every step feels like I’m peeling skin from bone. Like I’m closing a door I’d once spent sleepless nights begging to be opened.
I enter the foyer, pass the doorman who shoots me a concerned glance, and press the button to call the elevator. My neck tingles as I tap my foot, impatient to discard civility and unleash the torrent of emotion clogging my throat.
I glance over my shoulder and regret it the instant my eyes lock with Raffael’s.
He’s still in his car, holding up traffic, watching me with sorrow that travels the space between us to wrench a whimper from my chest.
I’m desperate to believe his anguish is for me. For us. But common sense says it’s damage control.
The elevator dings its arrival and I rush to step inside.
My apartment feels wrong as soon as I let myself in, the familiarity not bringing an ounce of comfort. The second I click the door shut behind me, the walls feel like they’re closing in.
I pace the length of my living room—back and forth—hands dragging through my hair, denial and grief making it hard to breathe.
Last night I’d woken disoriented, my addled state quickly shifting to relief when I found Raffael at the end of the bed. Everything inside me eased at the sight of him. I recognized him as safety. As shelter. A true north after days trapped and lost.
I’d fallen back asleep reassured by his presence. The mere thought of him anchored me.
Now everything feels upside down and inside out, the instability nauseating.
A rattle of keys in the hall spikes my pulse, the fear that shadowed my captivity returning to leave me frozen until Quinn opens the door, Nyra tucked under her arm.
Relief hits so hard my knees falter.
I stumble forward, hands outstretched.
Nyra meows, offers a trademark glower, then leaps to the floor and saunters into the kitchen, blissfully indifferent to my impending emotional collapse.
I catch my breath, my point of structural failure reached.
A sob rips free, violent enough to fold me in half. I crumple to the carpet. Let destruction take hold.
“Oh, babe…” Quinn rushes forward and drops beside me, dragging me into a fierce hug. “I’m so sorry.”
I cover my face with both hands, heaving my grief with such force bile coats the back of my throat.
There are tears. Cries. Nonsensical blubbering.
She holds me through them all, whispering soft assurance, clutching me tighter.
I struggle to pull myself together. It feels like hours, days, my face swollen and eyes sore when I finally sniff myself into some semblance of stability.
“Do you feel any better?” Quinn sweeps the tear-soaked hair from my cheeks. “I promise you’re going to be okay.”
Am I?
