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Not really.

Memory.

Blank eyes.

Hands resting uselessly beside her.

I’m too broken.

I swallowed. Vivienne opened the bedroom door. I stepped inside. Nothing looked wrong. That was the worst part. The bed was made. A mug sat beside it. Cold tea stained the bottom. Clothes lay folded over the back of a chair. A hair tie rested on the dresser. Normal.

Bethany had lived here yesterday.

Then today… she didn’t.

I walked farther inside and stopped. The closet door was open. Only a fraction. My throat closed. I crossed the room and pulled it wider. Blankets. A pillow. A bottle of water. Her little fucking nest.

The place she went when the walls weren’t enough.

Who’s going to want someone who sleeps in their closet?

I reached inside. Touched the blanket.

Cold.

“Nyssa?”

I couldn’t answer. I lowered myself to the floor. The same way I’d done that morning months ago. Back against the wall. Legs stretched awkwardly in front of me.

Vivienne stood silently near the door.

“I sat with her here.”

“I know.”

“She thought she was too broken.” My voice cracked. “I told her we knew what we were.”

Vivienne’s breathing changed.

“What we’d survived.” I looked into the empty closet. “What if I was wrong?”

“You weren’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re sitting here.”

I turned toward her. Vivienne’s eyes shone.

“So am I.”

A sound moved downstairs. Male voices. More than before. Vivienne wiped beneath her eyes.

“London.”

I pushed myself upright, wincing from the pain in my leg and we went down. I heard them before I saw them. Rafe. Alaric. London. Then two voices I didn’t recognise. I reached the bottom of the staircase and stopped. Men filled the sitting room. Danger changed the shape of the space.

London stood beside the fireplace, phone in hand. Two men flanked him. Twins. Carven and Colt. Two Sons of the Order he’d saved and raised as his own. One leaned against the mantel, unnervingly still. The other stood with his arms folded, watching everything.