His body crumpling. Limbs at wrong angles. Blood pooling faster than I thought possible, spreading across rain-slicked concrete in a dark mirror.
Self-defense or not, I killed him. I took Xavier's brother and I buried the memory so deep I forgot I did it.
"Inside," Zay says, voice firm but gentle. "Now. Before someone sees."
My legs won't hold. I try to stand and they give out completely. He reaches for me and this time I let him because the alternative is staying on my knees in the driveway, coming apart atom by atom while the neighbors watch.
He gets me upright, one arm around my waist, taking most of my weight. I lean into him because I have no choice, and we make it three stumbling steps toward the house before the door bangs open again.
Asher—fully dressed in tactical gear, armed to the teeth, jacket half-zipped like he threw it on while running. He takes one look at me and goes completely, utterly still. Not the frozen stillness of surprise, but the predatory stillness of someone calculating threat levels and exit strategies.
"Jesus Christ," he breathes.
"She won't talk," Zay says, voice tight.
Asher's eyes narrow, scanning me from head to toe with clinical precision. " The deal is I go with you, and then you disappear after meeting with the fucking Vipers. We couldn’t find you. Where were you?"
"I already asked," Zay mutters. "Got nowhere."
They're bracketing me now, one on each side, and it should feel safe but instead it feels like a trap. Like walls closing in. Like I'm about to be buried alive under the weight of questions I can't answer because answering means admitting what I did.
"Get her inside," Asher says, voice clipped and controlled. "Before someone sees and starts asking questions we don't want to answer."
They guide me through the door into the kitchen. The lights are too bright—everything's too bright, too sharp, too real after the darkness of the ride home. The refrigerator hums its monotonous drone. The clock on the wall ticks, ticks, ticks—each second a hammer blow against my skull. My heartbeat crashes against my ribs like it's trying to escape my body entirely.
Zay closes the door behind us. Locks it with a decisive click. Moves to the window, checks the street, pulls the curtain shut. Standard security procedure but it makes the kitchen feel smaller, more confined.
Asher leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, posture deceptively casual. But his eyes track every movement, every breath, cataloging and calculating. I've seen him look at enemies this way, measuring them for weaknesses.
"What happened?" he asks, voice level.
"Nothing," I say automatically. The lie comes easily now, worn smooth from repeated use.
"Try again," he says flatly.
I drop into a chair at the kitchen table, elbows on wood, head in my hands. The images won't stop. They loop, relentless, unavoidable. The pipe. The swing. The crack. The blood. Over and over and over until I want to claw the memories out of my skull.
Asher moves to the sink. Water runs, too loud in the silence. A glass fills. He crosses back, sets it in front of me with a soft clink of glass on wood.
"Drink," he says.
I don't move. Can't move. I'm frozen, stuck in the memory of Marcus's eyes going empty.
He crouches beside my chair, bringing himself to eye level. "Val. Look at me."
I keep staring at the glass instead. Watch condensation bead on the surface, roll down in slow rivulets like tears.
"Drink," he repeats, softer this time. Almost gentle. "Please."
I pick up the glass with both hands. It takes both hands to keep it steady enough to bring to my lips. Water sloshes, threatens to spill. I manage to drink a little without dropping it but it tastes like nothing—no flavor, no temperature, just wet.
Zay pulls out the chair across from me. The legs scrape against the tile, too loud. He sits, leans forward, elbows on knees. "What did they say to you?"
"Nothing important." My voice sounds distant, hollow, like it's coming from someone else entirely.
"Valentina—"
"Talia's staying with them," I interrupt, because I can give them this much truth. "She's not coming back."
