That realization scares me more than the manor ever has.
I lie there, numb and quiet, watching the person I love fall apart for something my body has already let go of, and I wonder what is wrong with me that I can't cry.
I wonder if the numbness will ever leave.
I wonder if I will wake up one day and finally feel it all at once.
Chapter 31
Seth
The safe house has been silent for the last forty eight hours.
I sit on the edge of the bed beside her, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. The room stays dim and enclosed.
She lies against the pillows, wrapped in black sheets, barely moving. Since the procedure, she hasn't said much. Sometimes her body trembles without warning. Sometimes she flinches when I touch her. Most of the time, she doesn't react at all.
She hasn't really slept.
She drifts in and out, minutes at a time, her body never fully letting go. Each time she slips under, I wait for it. The jerk. The breath tearing out of her chest. The panic snapping her awake like something has grabbed her from the inside.
I think she might finally be staying down this time. Her breathing evens out. Her muscles loosen just enough that I let myself lean back, let my eyes close.
An hour and twenty five minutes.
That is the record.
The second the thought crosses my mind, she screams.
Her body jolts hard, hands clawing, breath breaking into sharp, broken gasps as she shakes violently. I'm on her instantly, pulling her against my chest, wrapping my arms around her before she can fold in on herself.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, the words pressed against her ear. “You’re here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
She shakes harder in my arms, her whole body trembling like she is trying to outrun something still inside her. Her heart slams against my chest, fastand out of control, and her fingers fist in my shirt, twisting the fabric like she needs proof I am here. That I am real. That this is real.
“I know,” I whisper. “I know, baby. I got you.”
Her eyes are open but unfocused, staring past my shoulder, glassy and distant. I shift her closer, one hand at the back of her head, the other flat between her shoulders, feeling every shudder move through her.
“Look at me,” I say, gentle but firm. “Hey. Look at me.”
She does not. Her gaze stays locked somewhere else, somewhere I can't follow.
Every time she falls asleep, this happens. Every time, she comes back fighting.
I keep talking anyway. About anything. About where we are. About the bed. About the walls. About how the door is locked and nobody can come get her.
“You’re not there anymore,” I say quietly. “That place is gone. You’re safe. I’m right here.”
Her shaking eases only slightly, never fully stopping. I stay there, sitting close, my arms tight around her. Rage burns hot and I have nowhere to put it. There is nothing left to destroy that will fix this. Nothing left to kill that will undo what has already been done.
I can only imagine what she endured in that manor, what they did to her, and what they forced her to watch. Some torture doesn't just leave marks, it fucks with your mind. I know what torture looks like. I have inflicted it many times. I have broken people down piece by piece and called it necessary. I don't flinch at violence.
But that place was different.
What we saw goes beyond control, interrogation, or punishment. It was systematic and intentional. It was sick. That says a lot coming from someone like me.
Whatever she went through in those five days didn't end when I carried her out. It followed her back here. It lives in her muscles, in her breathing, in the way sleep almost feels impossible.
