Theway her body starts to lose that sharp edge, the way the tension begins to ease just enough for her to stop pulling away.
“Inez…” she whispers again, weaker this time.
“I know,” I tell her quietly. “I’ve got it. I’m handling it.”
And I will.
Every name.
Every face.
Every person who touched her—
They’re done.
She keeps looking at me.
Even as the medication pulls her under again, her focus stays there—like something in her trusts what she sees.
That nearly breaks me.
Because she has no idea how far this goes.
How much I already know.
How much I’m about to burn down for her.
Her grip loosens in my hand as her body relaxes, her breathing finally evening out under the sedation.
The room settles.
But I don’t.
A tear slips before I can stop it.
Not weakness.
Not grief.
Rage.
Pure, controlled rage.
I wipe it away before anyone says a word.
“Talk,” I snap, turning slightly toward the doctor.
“She’s stabilizing,” he says quickly. “The bleeding has stopped. She’s concussed—her blood pressure’s still elevated, but that’s expected given the trauma. We’ll keep monitoring—”
“Expected?” I cut in, my jaw tightening. “She was just fighting like her life was still on the line.”
“It was,” the doctor replies carefully. “Her body is reacting to that.”
That doesn’t sit right with me.
None of it does.
I look back at her.
