The smell of blood clings to my hands.
It is not mine.
For the past hour, I have scrubbed my skin raw, watching as crimson swirls down the porcelain sink. But no matter how hard I wash, I still feel itâthick and warm, seeping into the lines of my palms, staining beneath my fingernails.
Caius's blood.
I exhale, pressing a hand against the cold marble counter, grounding myself. My knuckles are raw, skin reddened from the relentless scrubbing. Yet the sensation does not leave me. The phantom warmth lingers, as if his blood has etched itself into my flesh, a cruel reminder that I was too slow. That for a moment, I thought I had lost him.
Outside, the hospital hums with quiet, sterile efficiency. Inside, my world still thrums with the echoes of the explosion.
âthe deafening blast, the force that threw me back, the sickening sound of metal crumplingâ
My stomach twists.
I had been two cars behind. Just far enough to be spared. Just close enough to watch in horror as his vehicle was reduced to twisted steel and fire.
And then I was running.
Not thinking. Not calculating.
Just runningâthrough smoke and debris, through the screams and the chaos, my heels slipping against shattered glass, my throat raw from shouting his name.
I have never prayed before. But in that moment, I must have, because I found him.
Caius, crushed between the wreckage, blood trailing from a gash along his temple, breath shallow but stillâ
Alive.
The memory is a vise around my ribs. My nails bite into my palms as I close my eyes, willing it away. But the images have carved themselves into my mind, raw and unyielding. The way his body had lain unnaturally still amidst the debris. The moment his fingers twitched when I touched his shoulder, proof that he was still fighting, still breathing. The way my hands had trembled as I pressed against his wounds, whispering words I do not even remember now.
I have spent years perfecting the art of control. But in that moment, as I knelt in the wreckage, I had none.
He has been unconscious for hours now.
I sit beside his bed, fingers curled against my lap, watching the slow, steady rise of his chest beneath the crisp sheets. A bandage winds around his forehead, his skin paler than I have ever seen it. He looksâ
Vulnerable.
The word does not belong to him.
Caius is unyielding. A force. He does not bend, does not break. He does not bleed.
Yet here he is.
My eyes drift to the IV line in his arm, to the bruises blooming across his ribs, the evidence of mortality written across his skin.
Something tightens in my chest.
I do not know when I started caring.
I have spent a lifetime guarding myself, curating every emotion, every weakness, every tell. My love, my loyaltyâthese things were never freely given, only wielded like weapons in a world where trust was currency and affection was a liability.
But as I sit here, watching him sleep, I know this truth:
If Caius had died today, I would have burned the world to the ground.
At some point, exhaustion wins.
I curl into the stiff hospital couch, my body aching from the hours spent upright. Sleep comes in restless waves, my mind still replaying the explosion in fragments, in shadows.
And I do not see itâ
The moment his eyes open.
The way they drift across the room, unfocused, searchingâuntil they land on me.
I do not see the flicker of something unreadable in his gaze, the way his fingers twitch as if fighting the urge to reach out. I do not see how, for the first time, he watches me without the armor of power, without the careful calculation that always lingers between us.
But I feel it when I wake.
The weight of his stare. The shift in the air.
My eyes snap open, and our gazes collide.
For a moment, there is nothing but silence.
No words. No distance.
Only a shared truth between usâsomething neither of us are ready to name.
But it is there.
And it changes everything.
His lips part, as if to say something, but no words come. Instead, his gaze flickersâdown to my disheveled state, the faint bruising along my wrist from where I must have hit the pavement in my frantic sprint to him. His eyes darken slightly, something almost unreadable passing through them.
I do not move.
Because if I do, I will shatter.
And then, as if the weight of the moment is too much, I force myself to stand. My spine is straight, my expression smooth. My voice, when it comes, is distant.
"You need rest."
It is not what I mean to say. It is not what is clawing at my throat, begging to be spoken. But it is the only thing I can offer without breaking myself further.
I turn on my heel, walking toward the door. But as my fingers curl around the handle, I feel itâthe heat of his stare still burning into my back, lingering even as I leave.
The drive back to the estate is quiet. Too quiet.
When the car stops, I hesitate.
The estate looms before me, bathed in soft golden light, just as it always has. But for the first time in a long time, I feel itâthat old weight, the one I had buried deep. The memory is sudden, unbidden.
I am sixteen again, standing at these very doors, clothes still damp from the rain. My father's men barely glance at me as they pass, their voices low, their hands stained with something I did not want to name. I had come seeking comfort. I had found only silence.
I remember how the cold had seeped into my bones that night. How I had realized, with chilling certainty, that I would always be alone in this house.
But I am not that girl anymore.
I lift my chin, steel settling into my spine. Whatever ghosts linger here, whatever past tries to pull me back, they no longer have a hold on me.
I step inside.
This time, I do not hesitate.