When I wake again, the light has shifted completely.
Evening, maybe.
Or early morning.
I don't know anymore.
Time doesn't work right here.
But what I do know is that I can't stay in this bed another fucking second.
My body aches—ribs screaming with every breath, wrists still tender where the zip ties cut in, throat raw—but lying here is worse. The walls are closing in. The monitors beeping beside me feel like a countdown I can't control.
I need to move.
I need air.
I need to feel like I'm still alive.
I push myself up slowly, gritting my teeth against the sharp pull in my side. The IV tugs at my arm, and I glance down at the needle taped into my vein. I hate it. Hate being tethered to anything.
The door opens before I can try to stand.
Silas.
Of course.
He steps inside, his eyes immediately locking onto me, assessing. His jaw tightens slightly when he sees me sitting up, legs swung over the side of the bed.
"You should be lying down," he says, his voice low.
"I'm done lying down," I snap, though my breath is already coming too fast.
He crosses the room in three strides, and suddenly he's right there—close enough that I catch his scent.
Smoke.
Cedar.
Something darker underneath. Leather, maybe. Gunpowder.
And cigarettes.
I look up at him, my eyes narrowing slightly.
"You've been smoking," I say.
He doesn't denyit.
"Yes."
"Take me outside," I say flatly. "I need a cigarette. And I need to walk."
His expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes.
Hesitation.
Worry.
