"Maria." I keep my voice low. "Take her. East wing, all the way down to the basement bunker. Don't stop. Keep her there and keep her busy—books, juice, puzzles, whatever she asks for. Understand?"
Maria nods, pale, and goes to the sofa with more grace than I'd have expected. She murmurs something soft.
Maeve doesn't fight. She’s just tired. She lets Maria take her hand and looks back at her father for one confused second before the door closes.
Then it's only the two of us.
Lorcan hasn't moved. He's in the middle of the room with his hands hanging at his sides, not looking at me, looking at the carnage. There's soot on his cheek, and his shirt is torn at the shoulder over a shallow, jagged cut along his collarbone that's leaking dark red.
"You're bleeding," I say.
It’s nothing. He blinks and shakes his head slowly.
"Lorcan."
"It doesn't matter," he mutters.
"It matters if you pass out." I take a step toward him.
His head snaps around. His eyes are glazed, swimming, and for a second, there's something in them I don't recognize. He's never been violent with me. But he's holding so much down that it's coming off him in waves.
"Get out," he says, low and raw. "I'm not in the mood for an audit."
"I'm not here to audit you." I close the distance and stop a foot short of him. I'm not scared. I'm not even shaking anymore. I'm angry. "I'm here to stop you from losing your mind."
He laughs, dry and harsh. "My mind went a long time ago. You're just now noticing the vacancy."
He moves to step past me, heavy and uncoordinated. I plant my feet and block him. He stops, his chest against mine. He's a head taller and twice as broad, and he could put me on the other side of the room without trying. He doesn't. He just stands there, breathing hard.
"Move, Atara."
"No."
"I won't ask twice."
"You haven't asked once." I look up into that wrecked, glassy stare. "You're acting as if you've never had to fight before. Like this is the end of the world. It's just a Tuesday for you, isn't it?"
He huffs out a breath. "A Tuesday. They breached the gate. They came for Maeve."
"And they failed," I say, raising my voice just enough to cut through the room. "They failed because you fought them off. Because you killed them. You’re still standing. So stop acting like a victim and start acting like the man who runs this city."
He sneers, his upper lip curling. "You have no idea what it costs."
"Then tell me!" I shout. The sound rings off the walls. "Stop keeping it in your head! Stop turning into ice every time things go wrong. It’s not protecting anyone! It’s just making you a shitty partner and a shitty father!"
He flinches at the word ‘father’, stares at me with wide eyes, and I watch something behind them start to give. He looks like he's about to scream, break something, or throw me out of the room.
Instead, his knees hit the hardwood with a dull thud, and he sits there, hands on his thighs, head down.
I've never seen him look so small.
I don't say anything. I lower myself to the floor and sit beside him, leaving a foot of space between us. I cross my legs, fold my hands in my lap, and look at the wall.
"She wasn’t a victim, Atara," he says, his eyes fixed on the dark, empty space in front of him. "She was an asset. I didn’t knowthen. I thought… I thought we had something. I thought we were building a life."
His voice remains steady, clinical, as if he’s describing a failed business acquisition.
"It was a setup. A long one. She was Silas’s sister. She didn't love me; she hated me. Every touch, every night, every day—it was all scripted to wear me down. Silas wanted the Syndicate’s routes, and he figured the best way to get them was to put his own blood in my bed. She was supposed to get me to commit to a partnership, and when that failed, she grew impatient."
