Page 17 of The Cost of Silence

His expression doesn’t change, but something subtle tightens behind it. “I told you. I was nearby.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

“It’s the one you’re getting.”

I study him for a moment, the breadth of his shoulders, the tension bracketing his mouth, the faint smear of blood by his cuff. He looks carved from something ancient, steady and dangerous and impossible to push off balance.

Yet something about the way he’s standing feels… wound tight. “Why are you really watching me?” I ask softly.

His gaze locks onto mine, steady, unblinking, dark as a closing door. “Because you stirred up people who don’t need reasons to hurt you. Because you came after me and mine.”

“That’s not an answer either.”

He pushes off the counter, the movement too smooth, too controlled. “I don’t owe you answers.”

“You owe yourself honesty,” I say before thinking better of it.

His jaw flexes once. “Don’t start that.”

Silence stretches, thick and charged.

My cheek throbs under the cold pack, my ribs twinge every time I inhale, and exhaustion pulls at the edges of everything, but my mind won’t stop replaying the moment he burst into the room, the way he moved, the way his voice cut through the chaos like a blade. The way relief wound through me, when I heard his voice, knowing with certainty I can’t explain that he may be a monster, but he’d never hurt me.

“You were there fast,” I murmur. “Too fast.”

He looks away, toward the city lights. “I didn’t feel like being late.”

My breath catches, a tiny trip in my chest, I hope he didn’t hear.

Before I can form a response, he continues, voice clipped again. “The doctor will be here in ten minutes.”

“Nico, that isn’t necessary.”

“It is,” he says, turning back to me. “I’m not debating this with you.”

“You can’t just dictate my life.”

“I can when someone just tried to beat you to death in your own living room.”

My pulse stutters. Everything inside me goes warm and cold at once, fear, anger, something confusing I don’t have a name for. I pace, ignoring the dizziness that swarms my vision.

His voice lowers. “Sit still.”

I do.

Not because he commands it, but because something in me simply… gives. I’m exhausted from the last two days and in pain, and though I don’t want to admit it, a little frightened by the Pandora’s Box I’ve seemingly opened.

He sees it. A faint shift crosses his expression, so subtle most people would miss it.

The knock at the door makes me jump despite how hard I try not to show it. Nico barely cuts me a glance before moving toward the door, shoulders squared, movements sharp and purposeful. “That will be the doctor.”

The doctor steps into the room, older, mid-sixties maybe, with a thick head of silver hair, warm brown eyes, and a leather medical bag that looks older than both of us combined. He gives Nico a firm nod, then turns to me with a smile so soft it almost knocks the air out of my lungs.

“This must be the young lady,” he says gently. “I’m Dr Russell.”

Before I can speak, Nico cuts in. “She’s bruised. Ribs, cheek. No loss of consciousness. She took at least two hits.”

The doctor gives him a look, something like fond annoyance. “I can gather my own notes, Nico.”