Chapter 31
Seth
The safe house has been silent for the last forty eight hours.
I sit on the edge of the bed beside her, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. The room stays dim and enclosed.
She lies against the pillows, wrapped in black sheets, barely moving. Since the procedure, she hasn't said much. Sometimes her body trembles without warning. Sometimes she flinches when I touch her. Most of the time, she doesn't react at all.
She hasn't really slept.
She drifts in and out, minutes at a time, her body never fully letting go. Each time she slips under, I wait for it. The jerk. The breath tearing out of her chest. The panic snapping her awake like something has grabbed her from the inside.
I think she might finally be staying down this time. Her breathing evens out. Her muscles loosen just enough that I let myself lean back, let my eyes close.
An hour and twenty five minutes.
That is the record.
The second the thought crosses my mind, she screams.
Her body jolts hard, hands clawing, breath breaking into sharp, broken gasps as she shakes violently. I'm on her instantly, pulling her against my chest, wrapping my arms around her before she can fold in on herself.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, the words pressed against her ear. “You’re here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
She shakes harder in my arms, her whole body trembling like she is trying to outrun something still inside her. Her heart slams against my chest, fast and out of control, and her fingers fist in my shirt, twisting the fabric like she needs proof I am here. That I am real. That this is real.
“I know,” I whisper. “I know, baby. I got you.”
Her eyes are open but unfocused, staring past my shoulder, glassy and distant. I shift her closer, one hand at the back of her head, the other flat between her shoulders, feeling every shudder move through her.
“Look at me,” I say, gentle but firm. “Hey. Look at me.”
She does not. Her gaze stays locked somewhere else, somewhere I can't follow.
Every time she falls asleep, this happens. Every time, she comes back fighting.
I keep talking anyway. About anything. About where we are. About the bed. About the walls. About how the door is locked and nobody can come get her.
“You’re not there anymore,” I say quietly. “That place is gone. You’re safe. I’m right here.”
Her shaking eases only slightly, never fully stopping. I stay there, sitting close, my arms tight around her. Rage burns hot and I have nowhere to put it. There is nothing left to destroy that will fix this. Nothing left to kill that will undo what has already been done.
I can only imagine what she endured in that manor, what they did to her, and what they forced her to watch.
Some torture doesn't just leave marks, it fucks with your mind.
I know what torture looks like. I have inflicted it many times.
I have broken people down piece by piece and called it necessary. I don't flinch at violence.
But that place was different.
What we saw goes beyond control, interrogation, or punishment. It was systematic and intentional. It was sick. That says a lot coming from someone like me.
Whatever she went through in those five days didn't end when I carried her out. It followed her back here. It lives in her muscles, in her breathing, in the way sleep almost feels impossible.
That realization hits me in my chest.
Because if that shit disturbs me, then I can't begin to imagine what it does to her.
I watch her breathe.
And I think about the ultrasound. About how she closed her eyes before the doctor even turned the screen.
I didn't look away.
I stared at that monitor until my jaw ached and my eyes burned.
No heartbeat. No movement.
I never planned to be a father. I told myself people like me shouldn't make more life.
But the second she told me she was pregnant, everything shifted.
I let myself imagine it. Her smile. Our child.
A future that is not just survival. That idea was what kept me moving while I hunted for her.
Every sleepless night. Every trail. Every moment I expected to die. It was for her. For both of them.
I look at her face again.
She has not cried. Not once.
That scares me more than anything else.
I'm unraveling, and she is somewhere unreachable, sealed behind her own eyes.
I hate that I can't reach her. I hate it enough that I have to leave the room before I damage something that can't be fixed.
The kitchen lights are low, casting dull reflections across stainless steel. I stand at the counter longer than necessary, staring at nothing, then force myself to move. I fill a pot, set it on the burner, and watch the flame catch.
I lean back against the counter while it warms, breathing through the pressure in my chest. It feels like barbed wire wrapped around my lungs, tightening every time I inhale. I wait it out. I let the moment pass without letting it turn into something worse.
The meds have leveled the noise. That is the difference.
No shadow in the corner of the room. No reflection shifting in the steel behind me. No voice leaning in close to remind me I'm too late.
Luke has been quiet since I started taking them again.
Not gone.
Just silent.
Footsteps approach. I don't need to turn around to know it is Beau.
He stops a few feet away, then leans against the opposite counter, his arms crossed.
“You good?” Beau asks.
“No.”
“You want a drink?”
“No.”
“A distraction?”
I keep my eyes on the pot.
Beau shifts beside me. “We can make some scumbags disappear tonight. The kind nobody asks questions about.”
I exhale slowly. “Not right now.”
“Doesn’t have to be tied to this,” he says. “Just… something to burn it off.”
I shake my head once. “If I start, I won’t stop. And I need to be clear when I go back in there with her.”
“Fair.” Beau studies me for a second, then nods. “We’ve got time. We’ll plan. And then we’ll execute.”
I nod once.
“They’re going to pay for what they did,” Beau says. His voice drops. “All of them.”
The water finally begins to simmer. I tear open a packet, stir slowly, keep my hands busy.
Footsteps echo again, lighter this time. Travis appears in the doorway. His shoulders sag like sleep has been optional for too long.
“Is she still not eating?” he asks quietly.
“No.”
Travis nods once, like he expects that.
“Beau’s ramen is actually really good,” he says. “She might be able to keep that down.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m making her.”
“Good.”
He steps closer, hesitating. “You want me to sit with her for a bit?”
“No.” The answer comes out too fast.
Travis stops, raises one hand. “Okay. Well I’m here if y’all need anything… Not that you would—I mean—.”
“It’s okay,” I rub the back of my neck. “I know.”
What I don't say, what I can't admit even in my own head, is everything tearing through me at once.
I want to reverse time. I want her nowhere near that manor.
I want our baby back. I want to hear her laugh again.
I want my Brooke back, not the fragile version of herself she wears now like protection.
None of it can be undone.
And I have no idea how we are supposed to move forward from this without losing each other in the process.
I push off the counter and drag a hand down my face, forcing myself to breathe.
“I need to be in there with her.”
Travis looks at me for a long second. There is sympathy there, but something firmer sits beneath it.
“Then go,” he nods. “She needs you. I’ll handle everything else.”
He turns to leave, and he speaks again.
“I’m digging through every corner of the Collective database. I’ll find Elliot. Everyone tied to this.”
His voice stays steady, but the anger underneath it is unmistakable.
I nod once and go to stir the ramen.
Krueger is on my heels immediately, his nails clicking softly against the floor.
Luna follows too, quieter, sticking close to my leg like she always does when something feels wrong.
They both watch me with that same fixed attention they have not taken off her since we brought her back. They know. Animals always know.
It has been hard on them. They are used to her hands on their heads, her voice, the way she pulls them close without thinking. Now she barely reacts at all. No petting. No cuddling. No acknowledgment that they are there, waiting.
The ramen is warm. I ladle it into a bowl, careful not to overfill it.
I grab a spoon and stand there a second longer than necessary, grounding myself in the simple motions before I carry the bowl down the hall. Krueger follows. Luna breaks off ahead of us.
When I go back into the room, Luna is already at the foot of the bed, curled tight but alert, her eyes locked on Brooke. Krueger pads in behind me and stops near my hip, watching quietly.
She is sitting up slowly. Her eyes are swollen and unfocused, distant, but she is upright. Her fingers hover near the blanket like she doesn't know what to do with her own hands.
She looks at me, and something in her expression splits me open all over again.
I sit beside her and dip the spoon into the ramen, holding it near her mouth.
“Brooke,” I say quietly. “You need to eat.”
She doesn't look at me. Her gaze stays fixed on nothing, like something is still playing behind her eyes.
I slide an arm behind her shoulders and ease her upright. She doesn't resist, but she doesn't help either. Her weight settles against me.
I bring the spoon back to her lips. This time, she swallows.
“Good,” I whisper.
She says nothing.
I feed her another spoonful, then another.
Her body accepts it without protest, like the choice has been taken away from her.
Her arms stay slack in her lap. One wrist is wrapped in clean white gauze.
The other hand rests against her thigh. Her shoulder has been stitched and dressed, and she winces every time it shifts even slightly.
Krueger inches closer, his nose lifting as if he wants to check on her, but he stops himself. Luna doesn't move at all.
I reach to adjust the blanket.
She flinches.
The reaction hits hard enough that I have to look away for a moment. She used to lean into my touch without thinking. Now her body reacts first, already bracing.
“I’m tired,” she sighs. Her voice sounds thin and worn down.
“I know, just a little more, then you can rest.”
I give her the last spoonful.
Her face tightens immediately. She gags, a sharp, broken sound tearing out of her throat. I'm already moving.
“Hey,” I grab the bucket by the door. “Hey, right here.”
I make it back just in time. She folds forward and throws up into it, her body shaking violently. When there is nothing left, it still doesn't stop. She keeps dry heaving, her breath hitching, her hands trembling.
I hold the bucket steady and keep one arm around her until it passes.
When she finally leans back against me, she is shaking all over.
“Seth.”
“I’m here,” I murmur. “I’m right here.”
“They made them eat people,” she whispers.
My eyes widen as I hold her.
“These weren’t bad people,” she continues. “They were innocent. They were taken to the manor. They did awful things to them. They killed everyone. Even Miles.”
Her breath catches.
“Miles was a good person,” her voice breaks. “He helped me when they drowned me. He saved me. He gave me CPR. Now he’s dead. I had to leave him. Just like Mila.”
Her body finally folds inward, grief crashing through what little strength she has left.
I wrap my arms around her and hold her tightly. Krueger lies down beside the bed, pressing his body against the frame. Luna creeps closer and tucks herself near her hip, close enough to touch.
I stay there, speechless, knowing there is nothing I can say that will touch the weight of what she survived.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay.”
“I’m not pretending,” she replies, her voice quiet. “I just don’t know how to feel anything yet.”
“That’s okay.”
Her hand lifts, hesitant, barely reaching. The contact is light, uncertain, but it lands hard anyway.
I slowly shift closer and pull her into my arms, like one wrong move could send her shattering.
She doesn't pull back this time. She folds into me instead, her face pressing into my chest. A sound slips out of her, so small it almost isn't there.
Not quite a sob. More like grief catching on the way out and losing its nerve.
I hold her tighter.
I kiss the top of her head and let the words stay where they belong, pressed into her hair instead of spoken aloud.
I would've died to keep her from this. I would've taken every second of it if it meant she didn't have to. Because watching her like this, hollowed out and trying to relearn her own body, carrying something I can't fix, feels unbearable in a way violence never has.
It feels like failing all over again.
I couldn't save Natalie. I couldn't save Luke. I couldn't save our baby. Each loss stacks on top of the last, a record of every moment I arrive too late or not at all. Now I'm here, holding Brooke, trying to keep what is left of her intact, and it still feels like I'm failing.
I close my eyes, my jaw clenched, as her breath slows against my chest.
Pieces of both of us died while we were apart.
And I don't know if we will ever get them back.