I step closer instead, not opposing Elijah, not undercutting him, just reinforcing it in a way that holds her steady rather than pins her down.
“You don’t need it,” I say, keeping my voice calm, even, grounded. “But we’re using it anyway.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, searching my face, and I know what she’s looking for. That familiar push and pull that used to sit between us, the space where she could shift things if she pressed hard enough.
It isn’t there.
Not this time.
“We’re just making it easier on your body,” I add, softer now, letting the edge of care come through without losing the certainty. “That’s all.”
There’s a pause where I can see her weighing it, deciding if this is worth fighting, if this is a line she wants to push right now.
It isn’t.
She exhales quietly instead, the tension easing just slightly from her shoulders as she lets the nurse guide her, lets Elijah support her weight as she moves into the chair, even if she doesn’t like it.
That’s enough.
For now, that’s enough.
Elijah is already on the phone by the time we leave the room, his voice low but controlled in a way that carries further than it should, each word placed with intent.
“Double it,” he says, and I don’t need to hear the other end to know Christian is listening carefully. “I want someone at the entrance at all times. No rotation gaps.”
He listens for a second, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
“No,” he continues, quieter now, but sharper for it, “not building security. Mine.”
There’s a finality in it that doesn’t invite discussion.
I don’t interrupt.
Neither does Jackson.
We don’t question it anymore.
There was a time when we would have, when we would have pushed back against the level of control he exerts, tested it, resisted it in small ways just to prove we still could.
That time is gone.
Whatever snapped into place in him when we found her, whatever crossed that line out there in the warehouse, it didn’t leave him when we walked away from it.
And none of us are stupid enough to try and pull him back from it now.
He handles security.
We let him.
Because we all saw what happens when something slips through.
I walk beside the chair as we move through the hospital, my attention fixed on her in a way that feels different now, less reactive, less chaotic, more… structured.
I’m not just watching for pain.
I’m watching for everything.
The way her shoulders hold tension even when she’s trying to relax. The slight delay in her breathing when she shifts. The way her fingers curl and uncurl in her lap like her body hasn’t fully settled back into itself yet.
