Chapter 18
eighteen
The noise fades first.
Not all at once—just enough that my ears stop ringing and the world settles into something dull and far away. The shouting dies down. The engines are gone. The men disperse, boots crunching against gravel and rusted metal, voices low and cautious.
I’m still standing where I was when Dante walked away.
My hands start shaking.
Not a dramatic tremor. Instead, it’s a quiet, humiliating tremor that creeps into my fingers like a secret I can’t stop. My grip loosens on my gun before I even realize it’s happening. The weight of it feels wrong now. It’s too heavy. Too real.
I lower it slowly, afraid if I move too fast, I’ll fall apart completely.
My chest hurts.
Not from a bullet. Not from bruises. From the aftermath. From everything I didn’t feel when it mattered because I was too busy surviving. Christian took away my ability to grieve, but now, in the aftermath of confrontation, it boulders me over.
Adrenaline is a cruel liar. It convinces you you’re invincible, that you’re sharp and untouchable, that you can stand in front of men you once loved and condemn them without consequence.
Then it leaves.
And it takes the air with it.
My breath stutters. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, grounding myself the way the twins taught me. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Again.
Doesn’t help.
My knees threaten to buckle, and I lock them on instinct, refusing to give the night the satisfaction of watching me crumble.
Too late.
My vision blurs anyway.
I don’t cry. Not yet. My body doesn’t know how to let go like that. Instead, everything tightens—jaw, throat, shoulders—like if I hold myself together hard enough, I won’t feel the weight of what just happened.
Libby.
Her name pulses behind my eyes like a bruise.
I told them. I said it out loud. I said it in front of men who used to tuck me into booths at family dinners, who used to call me bella and sneak me candy when Elias wasn’t looking.
She’s really gone.
The truth doesn’t feel sharp anymore. It feels heavy. Dense. Like it’s sinking into my bones and making a home there.
A hand brushes my elbow.
I flinch.
But it eases almost immediately, because I know that touch. I’d know it blind. I’d know it in my sleep.
Matthias.
He doesn’t say anything. He just stands close enough that his presence registers, close enough that my body reacts before my mind can catch up. Warmth. Gravity. A familiar pull I hate myself for needing.
“Are you hurt?” he asks quietly.
I shake my head once knowing that if I try to speak, I’ll break.
He nods like he understands. Like he always understands me better when I don’t give him words to twist.
The silence stretches between us, thick with everything we didn’t say while bullets were flying.
My hands won’t stop shaking.
I curl them into fists, nails biting into my palms, grounding myself in pain because it’s easier than grief. Easier than the image of Libby smiling at me from the kitchen table like she doesn’t know how her story ends.
“I meant what I said,” I murmur finally, my voice rough. “About not being controlled.”
Matthias exhales slowly beside me.
“I know.”
It’s not an apology. It’s not forgiveness.
It’s acknowledgment.
That almost hurts worse.
The night air feels colder now that the danger is gone. It seeps under my skin, settling deep. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly aware of every bruise, every ache, every place where fear tried to take root and failed.
I stood my ground.
I survived.
And now that it’s over, my body is demanding payment.
A sob crawls up my throat without warning. I clamp down on it, swallowing hard, but Matthias notices. Of course he does.
He steps closer.
Doesn’t touch me.
Waits.
The restraint is what undoes me.
My shoulders sag. My breath shatters. I fold forward just slightly, and that’s all it takes. He’s there in the next heartbeat, one arm wrapping around my back, the other bracing my weight like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
I press my forehead into his chest.
Not because I forgive him.
Not because everything is okay.
But because for this one moment, I’m tired of being strong.
My breath breaks, and then so do I.
He doesn’t tell me to stop.
Doesn’t tell me I’m safe.
He just holds me while the adrenaline finally lets go—and everything it kept at bay comes crashing down.