Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
Advik
An icy silence.
That’s the first thing I register. The next is her voice—so quiet, so haunted—I almost miss it.
Consented... to rape.
The dichotomy of that phrase sends a chilling shiver through my spine. The words crawl into the room like smoke. Toxic. Impossible.
Consented to rape.
My stomach twists.
Those two words do not belong in the same fucking sentence.
She said she chose it.
She said she chose to be violated.
Something inside me ruptures. My pulse goes cold. My body stills.
And when I look at her—I know. She’s gone.
Her eyes glaze over, duller than I’ve ever seen them.
Not blank. Not guarded. Absent.
She’s not here anymore.
I watch—helpless—as she collapses. Her knees hit the carpet hard.
I wince at the sound, the instinct to catch her coming too late.
But then I’m on the floor. I’m pulling her into my arms. Holding her like she’s glass already cracked.
She’s trembling. Violently. Her body vibrating with the kind of terror I can’t seem to reach.
Not this time.
Her lips are moving. Barely. A faint whisper scraping through her throat on repeat:
“Stop, stop, stop.”
And this... this isn’t like the night of her nightmare.
This isn’t even a panic attack. This is a full break. A mind torn open and bleeding memory.
My chest tightens as her limbs go slack, her eyes wide and unmoving—still fixed on some point in the ceiling that doesn’t exist.
“Gree...” I manage to whisper.
Nothing.
I cradle her tighter, cocooning her in my arms like that might shield her from the storm inside her. But I can feel it—she’s not in this room. Not in this time.
And then the chant shifts.
It’s not ‘stop’ anymore. It’s a newer shaky mantra.
“I chose this.”
Over and over and over again.
Her voice—raw, gutted, fraying at the seams. Each repetition another knife across my ribs.
She believes it. That this was her doing. That this violation—this war on her body and soul—was her fault.
And I—I feel myself shatter.
Enough that I realize that—yes, she did choose it. I may have made her abandon the safety we built, but I didn’t make her choose the violence. The blame she carries, tears through my heart. I could’ve protected her from leaving me.
But I couldn’t have protected her from this.
And this—this is what was left behind.
Time stretches and breaks. I don’t know how long we lay like this—me holding her, her unraveling in my arms on the floor.
But then—finally—her breath hitches.
Her eyes begin to see again. Flicking to my face like she’s surfacing from miles under. I study every twitch and crumble of her scar.
She blinks. Her lips part.
“I...” she finally whimpers, as if seeing me for the very first time. “Help...”
The words crackle through the silence she’d created. Taking the last beat of my heart with it.
Help. How?
Those words—so small, so fragile—cut louder than a scream.
They destroy me.
She’s asking for help. After everything.
One tear slips from the corner of her eye, trailing into her hairline. Then her eyes flutter shut.
She goes completely still.
I sit there frozen, my breath stuck in my throat. My chest rising and falling with shallow panic.
Minutes pass.
She’s not dead—because I can feel her pulse. She’s just... gone again. Slipped into a sleep so deep it scares me.
My arms ache. My shoulder protests. But I don’t care.
I lift her, gently, one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. Like the queen she still is to me.
I carry her to her room.
Lay her down on the bed. And then—I hover.
I should leave. Let her rest. Give her space.
But the thought of her waking up alone—choking on another memory—without me?
No. I can’t.
So I settle beside her, careful, cautious. Create a space between us, enough for her to breathe.
But then I shift. Let her body curl into my chest, her face turned slightly against my shirt—her breath finally slowing.
If she wakes up and tries to gut me with her knife, I’ll let her.
But until then?
She’ll sleep with me here.
And I’ll stand guard over her peace—what little of it remains. Whatever little of what she’s trying to build back.