Chapter 44 Kael
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We walk Wren back into the rink after lunch—not because we need to be here, but because it’s the one place I know we can lock a door behind us, close blinds, and speak without someone walking in.
Finn holds the door for her. Atlas hovers a step behind, ready to catch her if her knees give out. I walk ahead, clearing the path.
She doesn’t ask where we’re going.
She doesn’t ask what’s coming.
She just follows quietly, like she already knows the gravity waiting for her on the other side of the conversation.
We take the small conference room off the trainer’s wing again. Finn shuts the door. Atlas flips the lock. I pull the blinds.
Wren stands there in the middle of the room with her coat still half-on, breathing just a little too fast. Not panicked. But bracing.
She looks at me like she’s waiting for a blow she’s already halfway prepared to take.
I hate that look.
“Sit,” I say gently.
She does, pulling her coat off her shoulders and setting it on the chair beside her. Finn drops to the seat next to her, knee almost touching hers. Atlas stays standing, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched in a way that says he’s barely holding himself in place.
I sit across from her and set my phone on the table.
“Wren,” I say quietly. “Before I show you anything, I want to be clear about something.”
Her fingers twist together in her lap. “Okay.”
“You’re safe in this room.”
Atlas murmurs, “Anywhere with us.”
Finn nods. “Seriously. Whatever it is, you’re not handling it by yourself.”
She swallows, throat working.
I unlock my phone. The screen brightens the table. Wren flinches slightly at the shift of light, like her body already knows what it’s going to see.
I don’t turn it toward her yet.
I watch her eyes.
“What I’m about to show you isn’t meant to scare you,” I say. “It’s meant to inform you. To give you the truth, not shadows.”
Wren’s breath trembles. Not enough to be visible. Enough that all three of us hear it.
“Okay,” she whispers.
I rotate the screen.
The still image fills the room.
A man in a dark coat.
Standing in Section 118.
Facing the bench.
Still as carved stone.
Wren’s hand flies to her mouth.
She stares. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.
I can’t tell if she’s remembering something or recognizing it. But the color drains from her face in a way that makes every instinct in me surge forward.
Finn reaches for her hand instantly.
Atlas steps forward like he’s about to tear the table in half.
I move the phone back slightly—not hiding it, but giving her a breath of space.
“It’s not confirmed,” I say softly. “Ops ran gait mapping, height comparison, movement analysis. It’s not enough for a full ID.”
She finally blinks. “But... it’s him.”
Her voice—raw, thin—unravels something under my sternum.
“Wren,” I say. “It’s a partial match.”
She shakes her head once, small. “I know how he stands. I know how he watches.”
Finn curses under his breath. Atlas’s jaw ticks hard enough I hear the grind of his teeth.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, leveling my voice.
“I need you to hear everything I’m about to say.”
She turns her eyes to me—wet, terrified, determined.
“First,” I say, “you did nothing wrong.”
Her breath stutters.
“Second,” I continue, steady, controlled, “this doesn’t mean he’s gotten close. This doesn’t mean he’s found your address. It only means he might have been at the game. It’s one sighting in a packed arena.”
Finn squeezes her hand. “And we’re not letting him get any closer.”
Atlas moves to her other side. “He won’t touch you.”
Her eyes flick to him, then to Finn, then back to me.
“What do we do?” she asks, voice trembling.
“We tighten everything,” I say. “Security. Movement. Routine. You won’t walk anywhere alone—not to your car, not into the rink, not to your building.”
She swallows. “Last night I slept. And now—”
“And now you will again,” I say, firm enough that she looks up fast.
Her eyes shine.
“We’re adjusting,” I add. “Not retreating.”
Atlas nods once. “He wants you scared. Don’t give him that.”
Finn’s knee bumps hers softly. “We’re here. All of us.”
Wren’s throat closes for a moment. She presses a hand to her sternum, breathing carefully, like she’s not sure if the air is allowed to stay in her lungs.
“I hate this,” she whispers. “I hate that he’s still—”
“You’re allowed to hate it,” I say quietly. “You’re allowed to feel everything you’re feeling right now.”
Her eyes fill. She wipes at one with the back of her hand, embarrassed.
“Don’t,” Atlas murmurs, kneeling beside her. “Don’t hide that.”
Finn’s voice is soft. “Let us help.”
Her voice breaks. “I don’t want you in danger.”
This time, all three of us respond at once.
Finn: “We don’t care.”
Atlas: “He’s not a threat to us.”
Me: “You’re our priority.”
Wren lets out a sound—half-sob, half-breath—and tries to cover her face with her hands.
I reach out slowly and tap her wrist.
“Don’t hide,” I say gently.
She drops her hands, tears tracking down in quiet lines. She looks at each of us like she can’t believe we’re real.
“What happens now?” she whispers.
I take a breath.
“We take you home,” I say. “To one of our places. Your choice.”
She opens her mouth like she’s about to refuse.
Atlas cuts in, voice low, absolute. “You’re not sleeping alone. Not with him in the city.”
Finn nods quickly. “I’ve already grabbed an overnight bag. For me. You don’t need one.”
Wren looks overwhelmed—terrified, relieved, fragile, strong—everything at once.
I soften my voice again. “You’re not a burden.”
Her eyes flutter shut. A single tear falls.
“I know,” she whispers. “I... know.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard her say that.
The first time she’s believed it.
I pocket my phone and stand.
“Let’s go,” I say. “Before this room swallows you whole.”
Finn stands instantly. Atlas offers her his hand. She takes it without hesitation.
When she rises, she’s shaken, but upright.
And between the three of us, she stays that way all the way out the door.