“You need to sleep at some point,” he adds.
“No.”
A soft breath comes over the line, almost amusement, but not quite. “Fine. Then don’t. But don’t do anything stupid tonight.”
I look back to the window, to the reflection of myself in the dark glass, to the man I barely recognize now that I’ve had a few hours without blood on my hands to understand what I’ve become.
“That depends what you count as stupid.”
“You’ve already crossed that line,” Christian says dryly. “I’m trying to preserve what’s left of the useful parts.”
Despite myself, something almost shifts in my chest. Not humor. Not relief. Just recognition. My brother is still my brother, no matter how ugly everything gets.
“I’ll keep you updated,” he says.
The call ends.
The room goes quiet again.
I don’t move for a second. Then two.
Then I hear it.
It’s not loud. That’s what makes it worse.
A torn little sound from the bed, too thin to be called a cry and too full of pain to be anything else, and my head turns so fast the world narrows instantly down to her.
“No… please…”
The words come out slurred by sleep, trapped in whatever dream has hold of her, but I hear them perfectly.
My heart slams once, hard enough that it almost hurts.
Jackson is moving before I am. He’s already there, leaning over her, his hand at her face, his voice low and soft and shaking under the surface.
“Sweetheart, hey. It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re here.”
Zach shifts closer too, one hand settling lightly over her forearm, the other adjusting the blanket where she’s started to twist under it.
“Lia,” he says quietly. “Nothing’s happening. You’re home.”
She whimpers again, smaller this time, her brow pulling tight.
“Help me…”
Everything in me stops. Because she was calling for us.
Because somewhere in that place she was waiting for us, needing us, believing, hoping, that we would come for her, and all I can hear inside that tiny broken plea is the truth of how long she had to wait.
I should move.
I should be the one at her side.
I should be touching her, pulling her out of it, giving her my voice, my hands, my body, something to anchor herself to.
I don’t.
My body locks halfway through the impulse because the second it rises, so does something else, that terrible violent need to grab and hold and crush her into me until I can feel every inchof her and know beyond doubt she’s here, she’s safe, she can’t disappear.
