Chapter 3 Cloe #2
His voice was low. Intimate. Coiled like silk over a blade. “And you never stopped being mine.”
That’s all he said. But it landed like a collar tightening. Like a hand closing over the back of my neck. Not violent. Not tender. Just... certain.
Then he turned. And walked away. No rush. No final look. He didn’t slam the door. Didn’t say goodbye. He just left. Because he didn’t need to stay to be present. His absence still tasted like iron on my tongue.
They didn’t keep me. That was the first surprise. No restraints. No security. No nurse entering the room to tell me I’d lost my rights. Just a doctor with too-neutral eyes, a clipboard, and Loyal.
He stood by the window, arms behind his back, posture perfect. Like a man attending a funeral. Not mine.
Theirs.
The doctor spoke without looking at me. He spoke to him.
“She’s cleared. No signs of concussion. She can walk with assistance. No stairs. Limit strain. Avoid stress.”
Loyal nodded once. No questions. No concern. No visible reaction.
“She’s in your care now,” the doctor said softly, as if Loyal was the mercy I’d been given.
But I didn’t feel saved. I felt handed over. Signed off. Shifted from one kind of possession to another.
Loyal stepped forward with a voice like cool steel. “Right,” he said. “Ready?”
I didn’t speak. Didn’t nod. Just stared into Wolfe’s dark unflinching eyes as he said nothing. Then I just moved. Because I couldn’t stay in that room any longer.
My legs felt thin under me. Fragile. Like they might collapse if I questioned anything out loud. So I didn’t. I walked. Not because I was strong. Because I’d learned how to move when I was supposed to.
One foot in front of the other, resting against the railing before I pushed off, hedging to the front of the hospital.
Loyal opened the passenger door like this was just a favor he was doing for someone. Like this wasn’t blood and bruises stitched into my skin. I climbed in without asking where we were going.
I folded myself into the seat. Pulled my knees in, arms tucked close. I didn’t look up. Didn’t ask. I felt him before I saw him.
Wolfe.
The heat of him behind me. The slow, calculated sound of his boots on pavement. The weight of his stare pressed into the back of my neck even after the car door shut.
He hadn’t said a word since the doctor gave him the list of everything that had been done to me. Not one word. But I could feel it. The silence was worse than shouting. He didn’t look away from me. Not once.
The car was silent. No engine hum. No music. No breath between us. He drove like a soldier returning from war. And I sat like the weapon they’d brought home to clean.
We turned left onto a street I hadn’t driven down in years. The moment the tires turned, my body knew. My chest locked up. My stomach twisted.
No.
Not here.
Not—
The gates opened before we even reached them. Smooth. Silent. Like they knew I was coming. Like the house had been waiting.
Camille’s townhouse rose behind the hedges like a specter dressed in glass and ivy. Elegant. Cold. Still too beautiful to feel like a place where something had ended.
I wanted to scream. Wanted to turn my face to the window and tell Loyal to drive somewhere else—anywhere else. But I didn’t. Because my choices were gone. And my voice had stopped mattering.
He parked at the curb. Turned the engine off. Stepped out without a word. The front door opened like it had been unlocked this whole time. Not a creak. Not a groan. Just space parting for memory.
The air inside hit me first. Conditioned. Too cold. Sterile in a way Camille never was—but her scent lingered anyway. Flowers. Cinnamon. Something soft underneath it, like powdered sugar and jasmine.
She used to say cinnamon kept the shadows away. But the shadows were still here. They’d taken root. Everywhere.
Loyal didn’t say a word as I stepped past him. Didn’t gesture me inside. Didn’t follow. He just stood there. A silent figure in the doorway. A gatekeeper. Not letting me in. Returning me.
My shoes echoed on the tile. The lights were already on. Warm, soft, timed to perfection—like someone had walked through minutes before I arrived and whispered, Make it easy on her.
But it wasn’t.
The stillness wasn’t welcoming.
It was curated.
Preserved.
Like I’d stepped into a museum made of grief.
A display of the life I let rot.
When I turned, the door was already shut. No key on the counter. No explanation. Just me. And Camille. And everything I’d buried under excuses.
I waited, barely inside the doorway, staring down the hallway like something might emerge from it—something still wearing Camille’s perfume.
Nothing did. But her scent lingered. Faint. Faded. Like the memory of a touch that once meant something. Vanilla and cinnamon. Warmth. Repetition. Home.
I moved slowly, careful not to disturb anything. As if stepping too loudly might shatter her ghost.
Marble counters gleamed beneath soft lighting. Gold hardware glinted like jewelry. The wine rack was still full. I stopped in front of it. Her favorite bottle still sat center stage—red with the gold foil neck. The one she saved for “when I need to feel expensive.”
I turned away before I could see the glasses. The living room was just as she left it. Cushions perfectly fluffed. Not a throw blanket out of place.
A scarf—hers—was folded on the arm of the couch. Not draped. Folded. Deliberate. Like someone else had done it. Like someone had come through after everything fell apart and tried to make it look untouched.
Preserved.
A still life of a woman no longer breathing.
The fireplace was cold and clean. But the scent of old smoke clung to the bricks. A candle sat melted near the base. Half-used. I knew that one. I’d teased her about it a hundred times.
You have twenty candles. Why always that one?
She’d smile and say, Because it’s the only one that smells like being held.
I used to laugh.
Now?
I hated how much I understood that.
Her room was at the end of the hall. I knew it before I saw it. The air thickened with each step. Denser. Heavier. Like the house didn’t want me to enter unless I understood what it meant to grieve someone properly.
The door creaked when I pushed it open. Her bed was made. Pillows perfectly fluffed. Crisp sheets tucked with military precision. Like she expected someone to inspect it even after death.
But someone had been here.
For me.
A nightgown lay folded at the edge of the mattress. Not hers. Mine. Fresh toothbrush in the holder—still packaged. A glass of water and a bottle of painkillers on the nightstand.
And at the center of the bed—
A note.
My name written across it in Camille’s unmistakable slant.
Bre.
Only she called me that.
I sat slowly. Felt the bed dip beneath me like it had been waiting. I didn’t open the letter. I couldn’t. If I opened it, it would be real. If I read it, it would be goodbye. So I left it where it was—sealed and sacred.
I stood when the silence became unbearable. Crossed to the window and pulled the curtain back an inch. At first, there was nothing. Just trees. Branches motionless in the still air. Then—
Headlights.
Cutting through the dark at the far end of the driveway.
Slow.
Unhurried.
One car.
Black.
I didn’t need to see his face. I already knew. My lungs forgot how to breathe. My fingers touched the glass like they could stop time.
The window was cold. He didn’t park at the front. He stopped halfway up. Got out. Didn’t pace. Didn’t knock. Just leaned against the hood. Waiting. Like he already knew the ending. Like I did too.
I walked barefoot through Camille’s house. Each step echoing like a countdown. The front door opened beneath my hand with no resistance. The porch light flickered above me.
I left it all behind. Not because I wanted to. But because my heart gave me no other choice. Wolfe didn’t look up. Didn’t move.
He was still.
Like stone.
Like inevitability.
I walked to the car. He opened the passenger door. Not with force. Not with ceremony. Just like it was already done.
I got in. The seat was warm. He closed the door. Walked around. Got in beside me. He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at me. Didn’t touch the key. He didn’t have to. The silence was enough.
It always had been.
The headlights lit up the gravel. And we left the house behind.
The letter still on the bed.
Unopened.