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Good.

Stillness carries farther than force.

I stepped back then—but not far. Just enough to give her room to pass. Just enough to keep the space between us controlled, but my hand stayed near the edge of the counter just in case she slipped.

She walked away without a word.

I didn’t follow. I stayed where I was, eyes on the window, cataloging reflections. Counting exits. Tracking the shift in the air until it passed. Waiting until the wrongness thinned and the house felt like something that would hold.

Only then did I move—checking the latch she hadn’t touched. Adjusting the curtain she’d left open. Standing there long enough to make sure nothing tested the glass.

I tell myself it’s obligation.

A debt.

A promise carved into me by someone who died believing I could be trusted.

But when the heat crawls up my spine at the thought of something reaching for her, it has nothing to do with Carter.

It’s Selah Crow.

And that’s the truth I keep buried—because the second she realizes I’m protecting her for reasons that have nothing to do with the dead, I’ll lose whatever distance I have left.

Distance is the only thing standing between restraint and ruin.

She knows it.

That’s why she won’t speak.

XIII

I Choose Me

Isit on the porch swing in the spot Scarlett claimed every morning, like the house still expects her weight there. The boards under my boots remember the scrape of her slippers. If I close my eyes, I can see her exactly—hair piled crooked on her head like sleep lost the fight, chipped mug cupped in both hands, that smile she only gave us before the world woke up and demanded something sharp.

The swing moves with the breeze. Barely. It feels wrong without her.

I miss my sisters more than breath. If I didn’t know Cass would claw me back out of the ground herself, I’d lie down beside Scarlett and let the dirt take me too.

A throat clears behind me—low, rough.

Not a dawn sound.

Then the pink sky blinks out as Malek shoulders into what’s left of the swing. He sits heavy. The chain groans, slow and tired, matching the steam lifting off our mugs. Burnt chicory hangs between us, bitter and familiar. I tighten my grip on the warm ceramic because I need something solid. Something that doesn’t leave.

“Enough.”

The word lands sharp as a blade. He doesn’t look at me. Just stares out over the frost-bitten field like the morning’s the one on trial.

“You’ve been silent long enough it’s starting to piss me off,” he says. “You want to fall apart? Fine. Do it. But do it out loud. I’m not playing peek-and-fucking-hide with your sanity.”

The chains creak as he leans forward, elbows on his knees, shoulders locked tight.

“You stop talking, you stop fighting. And if you stop fighting, you die.” His jaw flexes. “And I’m not digging another grave.”

The sunrise bleeds pink across the horizon. A crow watches from the fence like it’s taking notes.

“So open your damn mouth, Selah.”