Chapter 23 #2
The saw’s teeth caught iron with a piercing shriek. Sparks scattered like tiny stars.
Elora remained motionless, her breath held captive in her chest as each bar surrendered, first one, then another, until the last one fell to the floor with a clang.
The workman gathered his tools and left without looking back.
Rell opened the window fully, pushing it wide, then crossed the room and sat on the bed, well away from it. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at her. Just stayed where he was, leaving the space between them empty and untouched.
Freedom gaped before her, not wide, but wide enough. Her body could slip through that space, vanish into the night in mere heartbeats.
Yet she remained still.
Night air whispered against her muzzle, caressed her fur, filled her chest with each slow inhale. The thundering in her ribcage quieted. The vise around her lungs released its grip, just enough that the walls stopped their inward march.
Only then did her bones begin to shift.
The transformation left her clothes in tatters, unsalvageable scraps hanging from her frame. Beneath them, her Al’teran garments clung to skin that still prickled with the aftershocks of terror.
Elora’s legs gave way. She sank to the floor, drew her knees tight against her body. Her skull pressed into the plaster wall as she stared at nothing, muscles quivering despite the danger having passed.
When Rell’s eyes finally found her, his face carried such naked concern that she had to look away.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have brought you here. I didn’t—”
“What’s Florence’s surname?”
The question cut him off mid-breath.
Rell blinked. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t think she uses one.”
Elora swallowed hard. “I think it’s Thorn.”
The word scraped its way out of her.
Rell stilled.
“She’s Tehvan’s real daughter,” Elora continued, her voice wavering despite her effort to keep it steady. “Abernathy Thorn’s niece.”
The words real daughter caught in her throat, lodged there until her eyes burned.
Rell crossed the room and lowered into a squat in front of her—close, but not crowding. He made sure the window stayed in her line of sight, an open path she could take at any moment.
He remembered.
She could see it in his eyes, the morning in the woods when she’d told him about Tehvan’s daughter. The child who was supposed to be dead. The reason Thorn had hated her so deeply. The justification Thorn had given for everything he’d done.
If Florence was—
Rell’s mouth opened, then closed again.
Elora’s lip trembled.
“It means none of it had to happen,” she whispered. “Any of it.”
Her voice broke then, the truth crashing down in full.
Her gaze dropped to the floor.
Her thoughts splintered.
Did Tehvan know?
Maybe he believed she was dead. Maybe that made it better. Made the lie smaller, somehow. Or worse. How much does Florence know? What stories had she been told? What version of Elora existed in her mind: the replacement, the shadow, the inconvenience?
And how did she feel about her?
About the girl her father had filled the empty space with.
The questions multiplied, firing faster than she could catch them, each one sparking another until her chest felt tight again, breath skidding shallow and uneven.
Then—pressure.
Steady. Intentional.
Her mind snagged on it, dragged back into her body. She blinked, refocusing on the present, and realized Rell had taken her hand. His fingers wrapped around her palm, his thumb pressing in slow, measured pulses.
The way she used to do it.
Back when she needed her heartbeat to slow so Tehvan couldn’t read her emotions.
The comfort lasted exactly one second before the realization hit.
She’d never done it for herself.
She pulled her hand away.
Rell didn’t react. Didn’t reach for her again.
“You don’t have to stay,” he whispered. He met her eyes. “If you want to leave, we can. I’ll make sure no one ever finds you.”
The offer was real. She felt it in the way he said it, no conditions, no expectations. Just an open door.
For a moment, she considered it.
Disappearing. Running. Letting this place, this revelation, this ghost named Florence collapse into something distant and unreal.
But the questions burned too hot.
“I need answers,” Elora said. Her voice was thin, but it didn’t waver. “I need to know how she’s alive. What she knows. What she believes.”
Rell nodded slowly. He didn’t argue. Didn’t look disappointed.
“She’s trying to change things,” he said. “She wants to make things better. For people like us. For the kids.”
Elora absorbed that without comment.
She didn’t trust Florence. Didn’t believe The Hive was safe. But she needed the truth—whatever shape it took.
Rell stood and extended his hand, palm up. After a moment’s hesitation, she placed her fingers in his.
His fingertips brushed her temple, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The touch lingered, barely there. She folded her arms across her ribcage, fingers digging into her sides until her knuckles whitened.
She leaned forward. Resting her cheek against his chest. The worn cotton of his shirt pressed against her cheek, warm from his body.
His chest stilled mid-breath. His arms rose around her like wings, hovering just above contact before settling.
Her shoulders lowered by degrees. The muscles in her jaw unclenched.
With each inhale, she drew in the scent of sandalwood and leather that was distinctly him. With each exhale, the tremor in her limbs subsided.
Elora’s eyelids dropped.
Outside that circle of arms lay questions without answers, truths without mercy. The window gaped, night air rushing in, the world vast and waiting. But she wasn’t in a state to handle any of it.