"Then maybe I should leave." The words are flat, pragmatic. "Remove the leverage."
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended. I force myself to soften. "That's your choice, if you want to make it. But running won't protect you; it'll just make you an easier target. Here, at least, I can…"
I stop myself.
"You can what?" she asks. "Protect me?"
"I was going to say that. Then I remembered I'm trying not to do that."
Something shifts in her expression. Not quite a smile, but close.
"You can say it," she says quietly. "The instinct isn't the problem. It's whether you let it override my choices."
"Then yes. Here, I can help protect you. If you want to stay."
"I want to stay."
The relief that floods through me is embarrassing in its intensity. I nod, not trusting my voice.
We walk a bit further, ending up in one of the smaller sitting rooms. Empty at this hour, quiet, lit only by the security lights outside the windows.
Celeste sinks onto a couch and stares at nothing. The exhaustion shows on her face now, not physical, but emotional. The weight of everything that's happened pressing down on her.
"Clara Ellis," she says quietly. "She trusted us."
"I know."
"She asked good questions. Wanted to know exactly what she was getting into before she committed. I told her we'd keep her safe." Her voice cracks slightly. "I gave her my word."
I sit beside her. Not touching, but close.
"You didn't kill her."
"No. But I was part of the system that failed her."
"We all were."
She's quiet for a moment. Then: "Does it get easier? Losing people?"
The question cuts deeper than she knows. I think of all the faces over the centuries, humans I cared about, vampires I trusted, people who died because of me or despite me.
"No," I say honestly. "But you learn to carry it differently. The weight doesn't get lighter. You just get stronger."
She looks at me then, and I see the grief in her eyes. The guilt. The overwhelming sense of responsibility for something she couldn't have prevented.
I want to fix it. Want to say the right words that will make her pain disappear. But some things can't be fixed with words.
So instead, I do something I haven't done in a very long time.
I open my arms.
She doesn't move at first. Just looks at me with somethingfragile and uncertain in her expression. Then she leans into me, her head against my shoulder, her body fitting against mine.
I hold her. Not with passion; there will be time for that later. Just hold her, the way I should have held people centuries ago instead of pushing them away. The way I'm learning to be with her.
"I'm sorry," I murmur against her hair. "About Clara. About all of this."
She doesn't respond with words. Just presses closer, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt.
