Cal’s boots moved closer. I felt him near the bed without opening my eyes. The air changed around certain men. Cal carried authority like other people carried keys. Quiet, always there, impossible to ignore.
“She’s been through hell,” he said.
JD’s voice softened, but only by a fraction. “That’s why she can’t be here when the next wave hits.”
Skye whispered, “And if she wakes up and refuses?”
Nobody answered right away.
That told me everything.
They knew me.
They knew I would refuse.
Not because I wanted to be brave. I was so tired of brave. Brave was just another word people used when a girl had no choice but to survive something ugly.
But because leaving without doing one thing—one impossible, ridiculous, selfish thing—felt like stepping into a new life with an old ghost clawing at my ankle.
I heard the door open. Low murmurs. Boots. The doctor giving instructions. Regan saying something about fluids and monitoring. Cal telling someone to keep the hall clear. JD saying he’d make calls.
Then, one by one, they left.
I waited.
I counted my breaths until the silence settled thick enough around me to trust.
The door opened again.
This time, the footsteps were lighter.
Not soft exactly. Dylan would never be soft. He moved like a man who knew the floor might betray him, like he had been trained by every bad choice he had ever survived. But there was a looseness to him too, a lazy swagger even when he was trying to be careful.
“You awake?” he murmured.
I didn’t answer.
He came closer.
“Because if you are, Beautiful, you’re doing a terrible job pretending you’re not.”
My eyes opened.
Dylan stood beside the bed with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, his dark hair a little mussed, his face drawn tight around the edges. He looked like he hadn’t slept either. Like none of us had. Like this whole family had been running on caffeine, fury, and the stubborn refusal to collapse.
“You better not let anyone hear you call me that,” I whispered.
His mouth curved faintly. “Anyone specific?”
“Tarakk. Edge. Literally anyone who owns a weapon.”
“Your father’s already murdered me in his dreams.” Dylan leaned against the chair beside my bed. “Pretty sure he enjoyed it too.”
Despite everything, something small and fragile moved in my chest.
Not quite a laugh.
Almost.
