Page 6

The Christmas lights at the Mercer house had been soft–gold and warm–twinkling in the windows like something out of a dream I almost remember. I liked it. Everything felt… right. Settled. Like the world had finally tilted into place instead of conspiring against me. I had a drink in my hand. Story was there, she complimented my tiara.

And then—Mateo.

“I thought he was safe.” My fingers tighten around Timothy’s. “I thought he was a protector–a Shadow–and when he came up to me at the party, I thought it was okay to talk to him.”

But I was wrong. So very, very wrong. He was a monster, one of three. Or more? Hiding in plain sight.

My stomach twists. I keep replaying it, over and over, like maybe one time I’ll recall the story and it’ll have a different ending.

“I just went up to say hello, but by the time I saw the darkness in his eyes,” I take a deep breath, “and the knife in his hand, it was too late.”

The air was cold outside. The night quiet. I remember the way the music dulled behind the door as it shut.

And then everything⁠—

My thoughts get slippery, and I’m covered by that cloak of protection that falls over me when I’m afraid. A few things filter through, like the wet grass and how it ruined the hem of my dress. Or the dark, earthy scent of the tunnel.

I press closer to the bed, lowering my forehead to his hand.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

It comes out small. Smaller than I feel, which seems impossible.

“I shouldn’t have left you.”

The machines keep humming.

“Please don’t leave me.”

He doesn’t answer.

He never answers.

My lips brush his skin, soft, reverent.

“You only got hurt because you were protecting me.” I’ve seen the wound caused by Liam’s blade. It’s jagged and deep. “You showed your face for me. To save me.”

I still can’t process it. It’s why I keep repeating it to myself, to the quiet room, hoping the words make it real. I also know that it’s more than that. I want to remind myself of the sacrifice he made, so that if he wakes up–when he wakes up–I’ll have that to hold onto. That for one moment, I was worth it to him.

The door opens again, not a drift of movement, but an intrusion.

“Arianette.”

I lift my head, blinking as the room shifts back into focus when I hear Hunter’s voice. Graves stands next to him at the foot of the bed, rigid and composed. Damon lingers near the door, shoulders tight, jaw set, eyes focused on me. Dr. Stallworth steps forward, already talking.

“…internal bleeding has stopped for now, but it’s not a permanent solution.”

The doctor’s voice is calm. Too calm for the big words he’s saying, and the deep line grooved across his forehead. He sounds like he’s talking about something small, but we all know that’s not the case.

My fingers tighten around Timothy’s hand.

“He was lucky,” the doctor continues, glancing down at the chart, then back at them—not me. “The knife missed the lung. Barely.”

Lucky.

“Instead, it struck the subclavian artery.”

I don’t know what that is. Not really. But the way Hunter goes still and the way DK’s jaw locks and the way Graves exhales, slow and controlled, tells me I should.