24. Chapter 24
Wren
"I see his hands coming toward my throat," I sign, the movements jerky as the memory resurfaces. "They're shaking. His knuckles are white."
Dr. Levine nods, her expression calm despite the violence I'm describing. After six weeks of therapy, I've grown to appreciate her steadiness—the way she creates space for my broken memories without pushing too hard.
"What else do you see?" she asks, her voice gentle.
I close my eyes, trying to grasp the fragments that have been slowly emerging during our sessions. "His hair... wavy brown. He keeps pushing it back, frustrated." My hands form the signs with increasing urgency. "He says I'm his. That I'm not going to leave him."
My throat tightens with phantom pressure. I can almost feel those fingers closing around my windpipe again.
"He says he did it for me," I continue signing. "So we could be together. That 'he' would never have let us be together if he didn't do what he did."
Dr. Levine leans forward slightly. "Do you know who 'he' is? The person your attacker is referring to?"
I shake my head, frustration building. "Every time I try to make the connection, it slips away. Like trying to hold smoke."
"That's normal," she reassures me. "Memory recovery isn't linear, especially with trauma. You're doing remarkably well, Wren."
I manage a small smile at that. Six weeks ago, I couldn't even access these fragments. Now I have pieces—horrible, terrifying pieces, but pieces nonetheless. Progress, even if it feels glacially slow.
"The hair," I sign, returning to the detail that feels most tangible. "The way he brushes it out of his eyes. It's so familiar, but I can't place why."
Dr. Levine makes a note in her pad. "Sometimes our bodies remember what our minds can't access yet. That feeling of familiarity is significant."
I nod, having learned to trust these instinctive reactions. My body knows things my conscious mind hasn't pieced together.
"How are you feeling about your brother?" she asks, changing direction slightly. "It's been almost two months since his capture. Has that changed your sense of safety at all?"
I consider the question carefully. Lucien's arrest was splashed across every news outlet for weeks. The Reaper, finally captured after years of evading law enforcement. My brother, the monster who tried to kill me.
"Safer in some ways," I sign. "Knowing he can't reach me. But..."
"But?" she prompts when my hands falter.
"The stalker isn't him," I continue. "I know that now. Which means there's someone else out there who knows who I am. Who wants... something from me."
Dr. Levine nods. "And how are you managing that anxiety?"
"Better, with Jace and Theo." My hands form their names with a fluidity that speaks to how integral they've become to my life. "They've been... everything."
It's an understatement. In the six weeks since that night at the studio, they've practically moved into my apartment.
One of them is always with me—at the café during my shifts, waiting outside during therapy sessions, present but discreet during my cam sessions.
Their protective presence has become my new normal, a safety net I never knew I needed.
"They complement each other in how they support you," Dr. Levine observes.
I smile, thinking of how seamlessly they've integrated into my life.
Theo with his irreverent humor and fierce protectiveness; Jace with his quiet strength and methodical problem-solving.
They should clash, these two opposite personalities, but instead they've found balance—with each other, and with me.
"It's more than just protection," I sign, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "It's... everything. They see all of me. Accept all of me."
Dr. Levine's smile is knowing but professional. "That kind of acceptance can be profoundly healing. Have you been practicing the vocalization exercises we discussed?"
I nod, appreciating her tactful change of subject. "Every day. I can make more sounds now. Controlled ones."
It's another small victory. I've always been able to make involuntary sounds—moans, gasps, even screams during particularly intense moments with Jace and Theo. But forming deliberate sounds, the building blocks of speech, has been painstakingly difficult.
"And the stalker?" she asks. "Any contact since we last spoke?"
"Nothing," I sign, relief evident in my movements. "No notes. No flowers. Nothing since Jace and Theo moved in."
"That's significant," she says. "Their presence may have deterred whoever was watching you."
I want to believe that. Want to believe that whoever was terrorizing me has given up, moved on. But there's still that feeling—that prickling awareness of being observed that follows me sometimes when I leave the apartment.
"I still feel watched sometimes," I admit. "Like eyes on me when I'm out. But maybe that's just... aftermath. Hypervigilance."
Dr. Levine considers this. "Possibly. The mind doesn't distinguish easily between real and perceived threats, especially after prolonged trauma. But trust your instincts, Wren. They've kept you safe so far."
I nod, appreciating that she doesn't dismiss my concerns. That's been the most valuable part of therapy—having someone validate my experiences without judgment.
"I'd like to try something different today," she says, setting her notepad aside. "We've been working on accessing your memories through visualization. I'd like to try a more direct approach with the physical symptoms."
I tilt my head, curious.
"I'd like you to try speaking," she says gently. "Just one word. Whatever feels most accessible to you."
My heart rate immediately spikes, panic fluttering in my chest. I haven't spoken a single word in almost twenty months. Not since waking in that hospital bed.
"I know it's frightening," she continues, her voice calm and steady. "But you've been making sounds. Your vocal cords work. The physical capability is there."
I swallow hard, my hand instinctively rising to my throat.
"You don't have to," she adds quickly. "This is entirely your choice, Wren. But sometimes, breaking through that final barrier requires a leap of faith."
A leap of faith. I think of Jace and Theo. How they've leapt for me, time and again. How they've changed their lives to accommodate mine. Maybe I owe it to them—to myself—to try.
I nod slowly, agreeing to the attempt.
"Excellent," Dr. Levine says, her voice warm with approval. "I want you to choose a word that feels safe. Something simple. Something that matters to you."
I think for a moment, considering what word might be accessible. What word I want to reclaim first from the silence that's defined me for so long.
When it comes to me, it feels obvious. I look at Dr. Levine and sign the word I've chosen.
"Home," she reads aloud. "That's perfect, Wren. When you're ready, I want you to take a deep breath and try to form that word. Don't force it. Just see what happens."
I close my eyes, gathering my courage. Home. Such a simple word, but so loaded with meaning. For almost twenty months, I haven't had a home—just hiding places, temporary shelters. But now, with Jace and Theo, my apartment has become something else. Something safe. Something mine.
I take a deep breath, feeling the air fill my lungs. My hand rises to my throat again, but this time not in fear—in awareness. I can feel my pulse under my fingertips, the subtle vibration of my vocal cords when I swallow.
"H—" The sound catches, barely a breath with the faintest hint of vocalization.
I try again, frustration building. "Hh—"
Dr. Levine remains perfectly still, her expression encouraging but not pressuring. "Take your time and breathe," she says softly. "There's no rush."
I close my eyes again, visualizing the word. Home. Jace's careful touches. Theo's irreverent laughter. The way they move around each other in my kitchen, a choreographed dance of domesticity. The way they hold me between them at night, a fortress of warmth and safety.
"H-home."
The word emerges raspy and barely audible, but unmistakably there. A real word, formed by my vocal cords, shaped by my tongue and lips.
Dr. Levine's smile is radiant. "Wren," she says, her voice thick with emotion. "That was incredible."
Tears burn behind my eyes, a complex mix of pride and fear and relief washing through me. I've spoken. After almost twenty months of silence, I've reclaimed one tiny piece of my voice.
"How does it feel?" Dr. Levine asks.
I touch my throat, surprised by the lack of pain. I'd expected it to hurt, had braced for the phantom pressure of hands closing around my windpipe. But there's nothing—just the slight rasp of disuse.
"Okay," I sign, still too overwhelmed to try speaking again. "Scary, but okay."
"That's a tremendous breakthrough," she says, making a note in her pad. "We won't push further today. But I want you to practice at home—just one word at a time, when you feel safe. Perhaps with Jace and Theo, if you're comfortable."
The thought sends a nervous flutter through my stomach. Speaking in front of them feels more intimidating somehow than doing it here in the clinical safety of Dr. Levine's office.
"They'll be proud of you," she says, reading my hesitation correctly. "This is a significant step in your recovery."
I nod, knowing she's right. They've supported every tiny victory, celebrated each step forward no matter how small.
"Before we end for today," Dr. Levine says, glancing at the clock, "I want to circle back to the memory fragment about your attacker. You mentioned he said 'he' would never let you be together. Do you have any theories about who this third person might be?"
I shake my head. "The only man in my life then was Lucien," I sign. "And I wasn't dating anyone."
"Could it be someone who wanted to date you? Someone who perceived your brother as an obstacle?"
The question sends an unexpected chill down my spine. Something about it rings true, but I can't grasp the connection.
"Maybe," I sign. "But I can't remember who."