Chapter Seventeen
Rowen
Days seemed to blur together, the passage of time marked only by the gradual arrival of new reports about the war.
Each piece of information was slow to reach us, trickling in bit by bit, and every update brought with it fresh devastation.
Despite the heartbreak carried by these reports, the war pressed on relentlessly, casting a shadow over our daily lives and leaving little room for hope or relief.
Sypher stayed only a few days before Reaper called, needing him once more.
His departure infuriated Dante and damn near broke his mother’s heart.
As for Melissa, she never left her room.
Refusing to see anyone. Roxy assured us she was keeping an eye on her, watching her like a hawk, but even I could see the worry on her face.
Dante, Sinclair and I tried to keep Danika distracted with games and whispered stories, but each day she grew quieter, her laughter fading like sunlight at dusk as she waited for her mother’s footsteps that never came.
“This is bull—absolute bullshit!” Roxy barked as she burst into Sinclair’s office, her boots thudding against the wood floor. Her voice was ragged, edged with sleepless nights. “She’s not living; she’s fading—she’s killing herself by inches, day after day.”
Sinclair—always the calm one, his glasses perched low on his nose—folded his hands, the lines around his mouth deepening. “You’re the doctor here, Dr. Franks,” he said in that measured tone, his voice as steady as the tick of the old clock by his desk. “What would you have us do?”
“Pack up!” Roxy snapped, her words cracking in the air like thunder. “Get her out—leave this damn mausoleum behind!”
Sinclair hesitated, the leather of his chair creaking as he shifted. “And go where?” he asked quietly, his voice a low rumble beneath the storm.
Roxy threw her arms wide, bracelets jangling.
“Anywhere but here!” she spat, frustration vibrating in every syllable.
“This place reeks of everything she’s lost. I’m not watching her waste away in shadows and silence.
I don’t care if it’s a motel or a shack by the lake—just find us somewhere and do it now!
” Her voice lingered in the hallway after she stormed out, leaving the scent of peppermint and impatience behind.
Sinclair leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if trying to erase the ache that pulsed behind his eyes. The office, usually bright and orderly, felt dim and close, the air heavy with decisions and regret.
“She’s right, you know,” I spoke up, my voice rougher than I intended. “If we don’t get Melissa out of here, Danika is going to lose another parent.” My chest tightened at the thought, the memory of her last loss still fresh in my mind.
Sighing, Sinclair sat forward, his fingers steepled together as he looked at me with weary resolve. “I’m headed back to Chicago. Take them to New York. Call Mr. Conway and tell him to expect guests in a few days.” A flicker of guilt crossed Sinclair’s face, betraying his true reason for the trip.
I narrowed my eyes, folding my arms across my chest. “Why are you going to Chicago and not New York with us?”
“Because I have business to attend to in Chicago.” Sinclair’s words were clipped, but his gaze darted away for a moment.
“You mean you want to see your daughter.” My words hung heavy in the air, the accusation soft but pointed.
Sinclair straightened, adjusting his glasses. “She has requested a dinner to discuss her mother and brother.” His voice went oddly formal, revealing just how much the topic unsettled him.
“Tank?” I arched an eyebrow, picturing the familiar stubbornness of Sinclair’s son.
Sinclair’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of old frustration beneath his calm. “Yes, Theodore.”
I shot Sinclair a look over my shoulder as I got to my feet. “Face it, Sinclair—Tank will never allow you to call him Theodore.”
My lips twitched with a wry smile, trying to lighten the tension as I headed for the door to do as he asked.
“I’m not leaving,” Melissa muttered, voice muffled against the tangled sheets as she curled herself tighter, shrinking from the daylight eking in around the curtains.
She’d been rooted to that bed for days, her hair limp and her face pale, the room saturated with the sour scent of sweat and grief.
The silence felt dense—every breath a reminder of what she’d lost. Roxy stood beside her, her gentle effort at coaxing just another sound swallowed by the thick air.
“Melissa, sweetheart. You can’t hole up in here forever,” she said softly, her tone not quite pleading, just tired. “Danika needs you. And—think of your baby. Ghost’s baby.”
The words drifted out, falling flat.
Melissa squeezed her eyes shut, a single tear escaping down her cheek. But she was silent, the effort of answering apparently too much.
“Please, just go.”
I leaned against the doorframe, exhaustion pooling in my chest as I watched Roxy look at me.
Everyone else was already waiting outside.
It felt like the whole house was holding its breath.
Roxy stalked over and angled herself at me, her mouth set in that line I’d seen break up countless barroom brawls.
“Well? You gonna help, or just decorate the hallway?” she hissed, voice pitched low for my ears alone.
I shot her a look, brow arched, but she didn’t flinch.
Of course she didn’t. Roxy knew exactly how to get under my skin. “I’m not impressed, Shay,” she added, eyes narrowed with a challenge. “I know what you’re capable of. Don’t pretend you can’t handle this.”
There was more in her tone—a nudge, not a shove.
Beneath her gruffness was a worry she’d never voice.
“Just help me get her up,” she muttered, then stalked out, boots thumping down the hallway.
The door closed behind her with a click that echoed. I exhaled, feeling the weight of the room press in—the drawn curtains, the air heavy with old loss and new despair. I crossed the space slowly. My own hands trembled as I reached for Melissa, brushing damp hair from her brow.
God, I felt useless.
All the fights I’d won, the messes I’d fixed, and here I was—powerless against a broken heart.
“Melissa.” My voice cracked. “We can’t stay here. The plane’s waiting. We’re all going to New York together, all of us. Please.” She turned her face toward me, eyes red-rimmed, looking years older than yesterday.
“I can’t,” she whispered, voice small, raw. Tears spilled freely now, her shoulders curling inward. “I don’t know how to leave. I don’t know how to do any of it anymore.” My chest ached with the truth of it, with the knowledge that sometimes, love just wasn’t enough to pull someone from the dark.
“Well, sweetheart,” I sighed, gathering her in my arms. “You don’t have a choice.
” Carefully, I rose to my feet, cradling her gently.
She felt impossibly light, her body limp as she gave in to the weight of her grief, resting her head against my shoulder.
Tears streamed down her face, raw and earnest, as I carried her out of the house and into the waiting car.
The flight from North Carolina to New York City was uneventful, and by the time Melissa and I arrived at the Manhattan residence, I didn’t ask for permission; I simply carried Melissa upstairs, heading for the room across from mine, while everyone else ventured off for a bite to eat.
Throughout the entire flight, Melissa never spoke, never acknowledged anyone, not even Danika, which upset the little girl and angered Dante.
Walking into the bathroom, I placed Melissa gently on a small bench, my palms lingering on her shoulders a moment longer than needed.
As I crossed to the shower and turned on the water, the pipes groaned as steam filled the room, sending ribbons curling through the air.
The steam carried with it the faint scent of lavender soap, sweet and clean, almost out of place in the somber hush of the room.
The cold tile pressed against my knees as I kneeled before her, grounding me with its chill and reminding me how fragile this moment was.
I reached for Melissa’s hands, feeling their chill seep into mine.
“You need a shower, honey. Can you do this yourself, or do you want to wait for Roxy to get here?”
“I don’t want anyone.”
“Well, I’m not leaving you alone in here.” My voice was gentle but firm, echoing softly against the tiled walls.
She looked away, her eyes so swollen and emptied of tears, her heart still quietly breaking.
Melissa kept her gaze fixed on the swirling patterns in the tile, as if the world existed only in those shifting lines.
The silence thickened between us, filled only by the steady rush of water and the soft patter of droplets against porcelain.
The steam hovered, muffling the space, and I squeezed her hands gently, searching for any sign she might let me in.
But she remained unmoving, a statue carved from sorrow.
For a moment, the ache inside me threatened to spill over—I wished I could take away her pain, erase the invisible wounds grief had left on her body and spirit.
But all I could do was be present, hoping my steadiness might anchor her, if only for a while.
“Alright, honey,” I said, getting to my feet.
The tile was cold beneath my feet as I kicked off my shoes and removed my socks.
I helped her stand, easing the blanket from her shoulders, feeling the worn softness of the fabric slip through my fingers.
She didn’t resist as I removed her socks and pajama pants, but when I reached for the old T-shirt, she clutched at it desperately. “No!”
Realizing the shirt she wore belonged to my brother, I softened my tone. “I will place it on the counter. No one else will touch it. I promise.”
She barely nodded, her body so frail I could see every rib, her pelvis and hip bones jutting sharply beneath her skin.
Her arms looked impossibly thin and fragile in my hands.
Seeing her like this made my chest tighten with worry—I wished I could do more than simply witness her pain, wished I could gather her broken pieces and help her heal.
But for now, I could only guide her gently into the shower, ensuring she stood beneath the soothing spray.
The warmth of the water raised beads on her skin, steam wrapping us both in a cocoon where the world narrowed to the quiet ritual of care and heartbreak, hope flickering at the edges of my fear for her recovery.
Throughout the entire ordeal, she never moved, never looked at me as I washed her hair and body, the lavender scent rising with the steam.
The only sounds were the falling water and my own quiet breaths, steady and measured.
When I finished, I wrapped her in a towel, drying her off with gentle hands before easing her into clean clothes.
After guiding her to bed, I tucked her in as she curled away from me, drawing the covers close and retreating into herself.
I lingered a moment, soaking wet and silently hoping my presence was enough to remind her she wasn’t alone.