Chapter 7 Fragile Things Break Easy
Ethan
Ten days. Ten days since Lila, bruised and terrified, collapsed into Ryker's arms on our doorstep, finding herself reluctantly embraced by the wary, protective circle of Wicked Sanctuary.
The initial "one week" agreement came and went quietly. No one pushed, and maybe more surprisingly, Lila doesn't bolt. Checking on her each morning is now part of the rhythm of the house, a silent assessment of whether the night brought nightmares or peace.
Today, tension rolls off her small form even in the dim hallway light. Peace lost. Her fingers grip the blanket like she’s bracing for a fight in her dreams. Her breaths come too fast, shallow and unsteady, as if she’s running from something even while unconscious. Her fingers twitch against the sheets, her brow damp with sweat, a soft, barely-there whimper escaping her lips.
Then she flinches. Just a little. A sharp inhale, her hands gripping the fabric tighter, her knuckles turning white. It's not just reflex—it's instinct. Sharpened by whatever hell she endured. A body still bracing for pain even in sleep.
She needs more time. She admitted it, reluctantly, a few days ago during a quiet moment in the kitchen, acknowledging that healing—physically and mentally—wasn't going to happen overnight. She'd mumbled something about being grateful, her gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder, unable to fully meet my eyes but accepting the necessity of staying longer.
Is that flicker of trust, that vulnerability she fights, why this ache to protect her has lodged itself under my ribs over the past week and a half?
Something about the helpless tension in her small frame, the way she braces even in her sleep, calls up an image. M y brother when he was little curled up after one of Dad’s rages, pretending to be asleep but trembling just the same. That old need to shield him, to take it all for him, clenches low inside me. The connection hits me like a punch to the gut, twisting something deep.
I know what nightmares look like. I’ve had my share. Waking up in cold sweats, fists clenched, feeling trapped back in some hellhole overseas. But hers feel different—more visceral. This isn't battlefield trauma. This is something insidious, claws buried deep, refusing to let go.
I knock softly on the door first, waiting a few seconds before stepping inside. She doesn't stir, doesn't react at all. I step into the room, keeping my movements slow. Careful. The last thing she needs is someone looming over her while she’s vulnerable. But a shift, a tensing, tells me she senses me. Her eyes snap open, wild and unfocused for a second before locking onto mine.
She stiffens, dragging herself upright against the headboard, her breath ragged. Uncertainty flickers there: is she still dreaming? Am I another ghost?
“Relax, Angel,” I say, keeping my voice low, steady. “Sorry for waking you, but we need to head out.”
Her exhale is shaky, her hands pressing against the sheets to ground herself. She blinks a few times, disoriented, then frowns. "Where are we going?"
Her question hangs in the air, clipped and tense. Adrenaline and raw nerve hold her together, clear in the rigid line of her shoulders, the guarded alertness in her eyes. She's expecting a fight, not a shopping trip.
I run a hand through my hair with a sigh. "I know you don’t trust us, and I’m not expecting that to change overnight. But you need the basics—clothes, shoes, stuff that makes you feel like yourself again. Raiding Bastian’s closet isn't the solution."
Her gaze snaps back to me. Suspicious. Wary. But beneath that, something else—surprise. As if kindness is a foreign language, the idea of someone caring enough to help unfamiliar. For a second, her guard slips, a crack in the armor she so desperately maintains, but it slams shut just as quickly. The refusal is plain on her face, but she also knows she needs the damn clothes.
After a long pause, she huffs. “Fine.”
The town isn't much—a strip of quaint, salt-weathered storefronts clinging to the highway that snakes along the coast. The air hangs thick with the smell of damp asphalt, low tide, and the intensely sweet scent of cinnamon and yeast wafting from the bakery on the corner.
A mournful foghorn echoes faintly from somewhere out on the gray water, a sound almost lost beneath the closer cries of opportunistic gulls circling overhead. A few locals nod as we pass, their curiosity mild, unthreatening. Nothing fancy, but it has what we need. It’s quiet, almost sleepy under the overcast sky, which should feel calming.
Lila keeps close to my side as we walk, her arms wrapped around herself despite the warm breeze. She keeps her head down, shoulders tight, trying to make herself smaller. Every once in a while, she scans the people nearby as if expecting danger from nowhere. She hasn't said much since we left, but her discomfort is a palpable thing, a live wire humming between us.
The way she hunches into herself, trying to disappear—it flashes an image in my head: my brother, younger, smaller, making himself invisible in the corner during one of Dad’s rages. The gut-twist of old guilt tightens low inside me. I wasn’t there enough for him. I couldn’t stop it then.
A fierce protectiveness surges through me. I want to tell her she is safe. That no one is coming for her. That I won't let them. My jaw tightens, fingers flexing at my sides as frustration coils in my gut. But words are useless when the fear is still so fresh in her mind.
So I do the only thing I can—I stay close, keep watch on our surroundings, and let her take the lead.
First stop is a small convenience store, the kind crammed with everything in a tiny space. I grab a basket and hand it to her. "Get whatever you need," I say, her hesitation clear before she slowly moves through the aisles.
Shampoo, toothpaste, deodorant—just the basics, but she chooses simple things, as if she doesn't want to take up too much space, even here. I've never considered myself much of a shopper, but watching Lila flit through the aisles, grabbing things off shelves with that determined little frown, is damn near entertaining.
When she approaches the counter, basket held tight against her chest, I automatically reach for my wallet. It’s instinct, a simple gesture. But she sees the movement out of the corner of her eye and her head snaps up, a spark of defiance in her gaze before it quickly veils. She shakes her head sharply.
"No," she says, her voice low but surprisingly firm. "I have it."
Before I can argue, or even process the refusal, she pulls the worn envelope from her jacket pocket. My own hand pauses, halfway to my wallet. I watch as her fingers, surprisingly steady, dip into the envelope. Her brow furrows slightly as she thumbs through the thin stack of bills, and for a split second, I see her bite her lip, a fleeting shadow of calculation crossing her face. She carefully counts out the exact amount needed for the toiletries, each bill smoothed and placed deliberately on the counter. The small pile looks painfully meager. It’s not much. Barely a cushion.
Again, the urge to just swipe my card and make it easy, to take this tiny burden off her shoulders, rises strong. But I force it down, clenching my fist by my side. This small transaction, paying her own way for basic necessities... it’s a foothold. A scrap of the independence that bastard tried to steal from her. Taking that away feels wrong, like I’d be just another man telling her what she can and can’t do, what she does and doesn’t deserve.
She hands the cash to the cashier, pointedly avoiding my eyes now, perhaps sensing my scrutiny, or maybe just focused on completing the task before her pride wavers. She accepts her change and meticulously tucks it back into the envelope, folding it with a precision that speaks volumes about how precious those few remaining dollars must be.
"Okay," she murmurs, clutching the small plastic bag containing her purchases to her chest like a shield.
I give her a small nod, keeping my expression neutral, though a knot tightens in my chest. "Alright. Clothing store next?"
She nods, seeming relieved I didn't push the money issue, and we head out. The place has the kind of generic selection you’d expect—jeans, sweaters, and some sundresses. I gesture toward the racks.
"Go ahead, pick out what fits."
She stops, uncertain. "You’re just going to stand there?"
I smirk. "What, you want me to pick out your underwear too?"
She rolls her eyes but grabs a few things before heading into the changing room. I lean against a rack of overpriced jeans, idly flicking through hideous Hawaiian shirts, watching the curtain swing shut behind her armful of clothes. Waiting outside a dressing room has never been my thing, but for Lila? Yeah, I’ll do it.
She's in there a while. Long enough that unease starts to prickle. Then I hear it. A soft, frustrated sound from inside. Not quite a call for help, but enough to make me move.
“Lila?”
Nothing.
I don’t wait. I push the curtain aside and step inside the small space.
Air catches in my throat.
She stands before the mirror in nothing but a pair of snug jeans and a lacy black bra that does sinful things to her curves. The soft swell of her breasts over the delicate lace—fuck, she is all smooth skin and temptation. My cock hardens instantly, throbbing hard against my zipper, demanding attention. Every protective instinct in me wars with the primal urge to touch, to taste.
Her eyes go wide at my reflection behind her, her hands tangled in the top she was about to pull on.
“Ethan—”
I swallow hard, fists clenching. “Angel, you—”
Then I see them. And the world stops. The easy air in my lungs turns to ice. My smile, whatever was left of it, freezes and shatters. It’s not the lace or the skin that holds my gaze anymore. It’s the horrifying splash of color marring her side. My hand, halfway to reaching for her, stills in mid-air, fingers curling into a fist so tight my knuckles ache. A sharp, involuntary hiss of breath escapes me, but no words follow immediately. My gut twists, cold and violent.
The bruises.
Purple, yellow, and green, smeared across her ribs like a cruel watercolor painting. The depth of the discoloration, the sickening mottling over the bone... fuck, clear signs that some are probably broken, not just bruised. Ugly reminders of the brutal pain she's endured with every breath.
A flash: Dad’s heavy hand leaving similar marks on my little brother's small back, hidden under his shirt. The shame and pain in his eyes. The helpless, gut-sick rage that I hadn't stopped it, hadn't been there. This is that feeling, amplified until it screams. Helplessness chokes me. Rage burns, white-hot, at the thought of anyone daring to hurt someone like that. Small. Defenseless. She's been carrying this pain in silence...
My stomach clenches, anger flaring hot in my chest. The sight steals my breath. She's been carrying this pain, flinching through every breath without letting us see. And that? That fucking guts me.
My blood runs cold.
“You didn’t tell us.” My voice is low, controlled steel, barely a whisper, but harder than anything I’ve said to her before.
She freezes. “Ethan—”
I step closer, my fingers brushing her side, tracing the edge of a bruise lightly. She flinches, a sharp, involuntary jerk, and something inside me snaps.
"Lila," my voice is strained. "Why didn’t you tell us?"
Her throat bobs as she swallows. “Because I didn’t want you to worry.”
My jaw clenches. “Too late for that.”
She won’t meet my eyes, so I do the only thing I can. I gently, reverently, place my hands on her waist and go down on my knees, pressing the softest kiss just above the worst of the discoloration.
Her breath hitches.
I exhale against her skin, my forehead resting against her ribs as gently as I can. “We’re gonna take care of you, Angel. No matter what.”
She lets out a shaky breath, her fingers threading hesitantly through my hair. "I want to believe that."
I kiss her skin again, softer this time. Not lust. Just... a need to soothe.
Because she needs it.
Because I need it.
And because one day, those marks will be gone.
Erased. Replaced by marks of our choosing – signs of pleasure, not reminders of fear.
I stand up slowly, smoothing my hands over her waist before stepping back to give her space. She exhales, reaching for the top she’d been trying to put on. I turn, giving her privacy as she finishes dressing, but the image of those bruises burns into my mind, fueling the protective fire in my chest.
When she finally steps out of the dressing room, she glances at me, then down at the clothes draped over her arm. It’s a bigger pile than the toiletries, a few pairs of jeans, some soft-looking tops, a few other essentials. She approaches the counter, her movements slow, hesitant. I see her hand drift toward her jacket pocket, toward that worn envelope, and then pause.
Her gaze flicks between the clothes piled on the counter and her pocket. A troubled line appears between her brows. I can almost see the mental calculation, the amount she has left versus the cost of these clothes. That small stash wouldn't cover this; not even close. She starts subtly sorting the items on the counter, her fingers brushing over a sweater as if deciding what has to go back.
My chest tightens. Seeing her forced to choose, to sacrifice basic needs because of money after everything she's been through... No. Absolutely not.
Before the cashier can even start ringing things up, before Lila has to make that decision, I step smoothly beside her, pulling out my card.
Lila looks up sharply, eyes wide, ready to protest. Her mouth opens, that defiant spark I saw earlier back in her eyes.
I lean in slightly, keeping my voice low, just for her. "Angel," I murmur, offering a small, almost apologetic smile. "Look, I know you want to handle things yourself, and I respect that. I do." I gesture subtly around us, then meet her gaze directly. "But... we're okay. More than okay." I let out a quiet, almost soundless whistle. "Like, stupidly okay. Millionaire-level okay. It's... what we do."
Her eyes search mine, confusion warring with stubborn pride.
"We take care of our own," I continue softly but firmly, holding her gaze. "Right now, that includes you. You don't need to worry about this stuff. Let me handle it. Please? Just let me take care of you."
The fight seems to drain out of her, replaced by a weary sort of surprise. Maybe the quiet sincerity gets through, or maybe she's just too exhausted to argue. She studies my face for another long moment, then her shoulders slump almost imperceptibly. She swallows, the protest dying on her lips, and gives a tiny, jerky nod, her gaze dropping to the counter.
I give the cashier a confirming nod and hand over the card.
Lila looks up at me, surprise still warring with that familiar guardedness in her eyes. The brief flash of defiance is gone, replaced by wariness. She gives that tiny, jerky nod again, her gaze dropping back to the counter as if finally, tentatively, acknowledging that maybe, just this once, she can let someone else carry the burden.
I stay close while the transaction finishes, my attention shifting between her and the entrance, instincts on high alert. Once the clothes are bagged, I take the bag from the counter before she can. "Ready?" I ask softly.
The tension in her shoulders hasn’t eased, but she nods, managing a small, slightly strained smile as she gestures vaguely down the street. "Just... need one more stop."
We walk out, the bags rustling softly. Despite her attempt at a smile, the weight of the earlier moments, the bruise reveal, the money situation, still hangs between us. She's walking stiffly again, eyes downcast.
"Okay," I say, trying to inject some normalcy back into things. "Where to?"
She points hesitantly towards a small boutique storefront a few doors down, the delicate window display showcasing lace and silk. "There."
An underwear store. Right.
Trying to lighten the mood, I grin. "Ah, getting the essentials. Good call. Though," I add, leaning in conspiratorially as we approach the door, "can't say I didn't enjoy the preview earlier."
Her head snaps up, eyes wide for a second before narrowing. She elbows me lightly in the ribs, though there's no real force behind it. "Shut up, Ethan."
"Hey, just appreciating the view," I chuckle, holding the door open for her. "Seriously though, if you need a second opinion on anything... happy to help. You know, purely from an aesthetic standpoint." I wink.
This time, she actually rolls her eyes dramatically, but a small, genuine laugh escapes her lips. The sound is light, unexpected, and it hits me right in the chest. Mission accomplished.
"You're impossible," she mutters, but the tension in her shoulders has eased fractionally as she disappears amongst the racks of delicate things.
I wait near the entrance, doing my best not to look like a total creep lurking in a lingerie store, keeping an eye on the street outside. I watch her browse hesitantly, picking up a few items. When she heads towards the checkout counter, I see her hand automatically reach for that damn envelope again.
Nope. Not happening.
I quickly intercept her before she gets there, pulling my credit card from my wallet.
"Ah-ah," I say softly, holding the card out to her. "Rule change. My treat."
She stops, frowning up at me. "Ethan, I can—"
"I know you can ," I cut her off gently, stepping a little closer. "But you don't have to. Besides," I lower my voice conspiratorially, adding a teasing glint to my eyes, "if you make me come over to the counter and pay, I might feel obligated to offer detailed purchasing advice. And trust me, neither of us wants that."
Her cheeks flush slightly pink, and she glares, but there's no heat behind it this time. She looks from the card to my face, then lets out a small, exasperated sigh.
"Fine," she grumbles, snatching the card from my hand. "But only because you're being annoying."
"My specialty," I grin.
She shakes her head but turns toward the counter, using my card to pay. I step back towards the entrance, giving her space but feeling a wave of satisfaction. Baby steps.
She reappears a few minutes later, handing my card back with a pointed look. She holds a small, discreet bag, which she pushes into the collection of larger bags I'm already holding. "Happy now?" she asks, though the corner of her mouth quirks up slightly.
"Ecstatic," I reply smoothly. "One more stop, then we can blow this popsicle stand."
We step back onto the sidewalk. The weight of unspoken words still lingers, but that small laugh earlier and her reluctant acceptance now feel like cracks of light between us. I glance down the street towards a shop displaying cozy blankets and quirky pottery in the window.
"Alright," I say, nodding towards it. "Let's hit that home goods place. Your room's functional, but it feels kind of... sterile. Like a guest room no one uses. You're not just a guest, Angel. Figure you should pick out a few things to make it feel more like yours . Something comfortable."
She looks surprised, glancing from the store back to me. "I... I don't need anything else."
"Need isn't the point," I counter gently. "It's about feeling settled. Even a new blanket or some stupid little plant or a candle can make a difference. Humor me?"
She hesitates, then gives a small shrug, seemingly too tired or perhaps too thrown by the suggestion to argue further.
I keep my gaze sharp, scanning the street – pure habit honed by years of needing to see threats before they formed. My instincts hum at a low frequency, a constant state of readiness. But then, just as we get a few doors down from the home goods store, the hum sharpens, turning into a distinct prickling sensation down my spine. A silent alarm bell I've learned not to ignore. My gut twists. At that exact moment, my phone buzzes in my pocket. A call from Bastian. I sigh, glancing at Lila. "Give me a second," I mutter, stepping back to answer.
She hesitates but nods, moving ahead toward the next store. I keep her in sight as I answer the call. "Yeah?"
Bastian’s voice is curt. "Just checking in. Everything good?"
"Yeah, mostly," I reply, my voice tight, eyes still locked on Lila nearing the entrance. My gut is screaming now. "Listen, Bas, there's something... something I need to tell you and Ryker when we get back. In person."
There's a beat of silence on the other end, Bastian likely picking up on my tone. Before he can press, Lila glances back, vulnerable for just a second, and then I see them. Two guys, leaning against the wall near the store entrance, their focus locking onto Lila like vultures spotting carrion.
The first guy barely registers, forgettable, but the other... a faded, poorly drawn spiderweb tattoo creeps up his neck from beneath a stained collar, a nasty-looking chip missing from his front tooth visible even from here. Something about their lazy, predatory stillness sets my teeth on edge. Too casual. Too interested.
Lila is a few feet ahead, just out of my immediate reach, when their attention fixes on her. Her whole body goes rigid, her fingers tightening around the small shopping bag she carries.
Shit.
"Gotta go," I say abruptly into the phone, not waiting for a response, and end the call, shoving the phone back into my pocket as I stride quickly towards Lila. Before I can close the distance, the one with the spiderweb tattoo pushes off the wall, a slow, unpleasant smirk stretching across his lips, showing off his chipped tooth.
“Well, lookie here,” he drawls, his voice greasy. “Lost, little thing?”
Lila doesn’t answer. She just stands there, frozen, her breathing too fast, too shallow.
The second guy chuckles, taking a step closer. “What’s wrong, baby? Cat got your tongue?”
She flinches. It’s small, barely noticeable, but enough.
Rage hits me like a freight train.
Before the asshole can say another word, I am between them and her, my stance relaxed but my body coiled tight. Ready.
“Walk away,” I say, my voice calm. Deadly.
The first guy scoffs. “Relax, man. Just making conversation.”
I take a step closer, forcing him to tilt his head up to meet my gaze. “She’s not interested.”
Lila makes a small, broken sound behind me. I don’t dare turn. I know that sound—she’s spiraling. This isn't just creeps harassing her. This triggers something deep in her past.
The guy’s smirk falters. Smart man.
He mutters something under his breath and backs off, his friend following.
I wait until they are gone before I turn to Lila. She is shaking, arms wrapped so tightly around herself her knuckles are white.
The look in her eyes—vacant, lost—it is the same look my brother sometimes got after Dad was done with him. The look of someone retreating so far inside themselves you weren't sure they could find their way back. And just like then, a fierce, almost savage, protectiveness surges through me.
“Lila.”
She doesn’t hear me. Doesn’t even flinch.
I reach out, hesitate, then settle for touching her wrist lightly. "Angel."
She jerks like I’ve burned her, sucking in a breath the moment the word leaves my lips. Her gaze snaps to mine, and for a second, recognition isn't there. Then something shifts. The panic recedes, just enough for awareness to flicker back.
“Ethan.”
“Yeah.” My voice is quiet. Steady. “You’re safe.”
Her throat works as she tries to swallow back everything threatening to spill out. “I—”
“It’s okay,” I say softly, cutting off whatever excuse or lie she was about to offer. Because she isn’t fine. Not even close. "Hey," I add, keeping my tone gentle but firm, "Let's just grab a few things for you from this last place quickly, alright? Then we head straight back to the house."
She exhales shakily, relief warring with the lingering panic in her eyes. For the first time since we left, she doesn’t argue or pull away. She just nods, a small, jerky movement.
Taking that as acceptance, I gently guide her toward the entrance of the store.
By the time we get back to the house, the weight of the day has settled over Lila. She isn’t clinging to herself as much, and she isn’t flinching at every passing shadow, but her exhaustion is plain. Physically and mentally.
I set the shopping bags down near the couch and turn to her. "Go lay down for a bit, Angel. I’ll come get you when dinner’s ready."
She hesitates for only a second before nodding. That alone feels like progress. No protest, no wary glances—just quiet acceptance. She turns and disappears down the hall, shutting the door behind her.
When I turn back, Bastian and Ryker are both watching me.
Bastian’s brow furrows. "Okay… what the hell was that?"
Ryker crosses his arms, eyes narrowing. "She didn’t argue with you. She didn’t fight you. That’s new."
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "She let me in today. Not all the way, but… more than before."
Bastian’s expression sharpens. "What happened?"
I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. "She held back when we found her."
Ryker’s posture stiffens, his green eyes darkening, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "What do you mean?"
"She’s hurt worse than we thought," I say quietly. "Her ribs… they’re bruised Badly. A few are probably broken."
The room goes silent, the air suddenly charged. Protecting those who can't protect themselves is core to the code we all live by, and the thought of someone deliberately harming Lila like this violates it on a fundamental level.
Ryker’s entire body goes rigid, his nostrils flaring as his fists clench. He thrives in chaos, but calculated cruelty against someone helpless? That ignites a different, colder fire in him. His own history with helplessness makes the injustice burn hotter. "That motherfucker—" he spits out, the word full of venom.
Ryker pushes off the counter, vibrating with barely contained violence. His body is tense as if he’s about to march straight to Lila’s room. Every instinct screams for action, for confronting the source of the pain, for erasing the man who would do this. His jaw clenches, fists curling, needing an outlet for the sudden, brutal rage.
Bastian steps smoothly between Ryker and the hallway before Ryker can take another step. "Not like this," Bastian says, his voice calm but carrying the absolute weight of command. He hates bullies, hates those who prey on the weak – it offends his sense of order and control.
Ryker’s eyes flash, locking onto Bastian. "Get out of my way, Bas."
"And do what? Storm in there and demand answers she isn’t ready to give?" Bastian doesn’t budge, his gaze steady. "She let Ethan in today. That’s progress we can't afford to lose. Going in hot now will only terrify her, push her further away. We need her cooperative if we're going to help her." His focus is strategic, but beneath it simmers his own cold anger at the violation.
Ryker’s chest heaves, his breathing ragged. He looks trapped between the urge to violence and Bastian's logic. "So we just sit back while she’s hurting?" His voice is low, dangerous—a challenge to their inaction.
"I’m telling you to handle this smartly ," Bastian counters, his tone unyielding. "We’re not gonna let it slide, but she needs to trust us first."
Ryker exhales sharply, the sound like tearing metal, dragging a hand violently over his face. "Fine," he grinds out. "Fine. But one way or another, that bastard’s gonna pay for laying hands on her." The promise is absolute, fueled by righteous fury.
I don’t disagree. The image of those bruises, the thought of the deliberate pain inflicted, coils like ice in my gut. But Bastian's right; rushing in solves nothing. After seeing her flinch, after seeing the hidden pain, I know this isn't just about punishing him. It's about ensuring she, or anyone under our protection, never has to endure that kind of fear again.
She let me in today, even a little. Progress. But trust isn’t built in a day, and whatever haunts her still weighs heavily. Bastian’s jaw clenches, his eyes flicking toward the hallway where Lila had disappeared. He radiates the desire to follow, demand answers, but he stays rooted, tension rolling off him in waves. I recognize that look—when something is out of his control, and he fucking hates it.
He exhales slowly, raking a hand through his hair before turning back to me and Ryker. 'She’s not the only one who needs rest. Get some air, cool off. We’ll figure out our next move later.'
Ryker mutters something under his breath, his fists still tight at his sides. He’s pacing like a caged animal, tension rolling off him. His chest rises and falls sharply, nostrils flaring as he fights the rage clawing at him. With a sharp exhale, he turns on his heel and stalks off toward the back porch, shoving the door open with a little too much force. I shoot one last glance at the hallway before nodding.
Bastian stays where he is, arms crossed, his fingers flexing slightly against his biceps. His stance is solid, but the tension is visible in his shoulders, the way his jaw works as he listens to the quiet hum of the house. He isn’t just waiting—he is bracing, calculating. Preparing for whatever comes next.
I turn fully to face him, the image of those bruises still searing behind my eyes. "Bas," I say quietly, making sure Ryker is out of earshot. "About her ribs... I'm pretty sure some are broken. We need to get Doc Evans out here, or someone we trust. Soon."
Bastian's gaze sharpens, focusing intently on me. He gives a curt nod. "I know there's not much they can do besides tape them, maybe pain meds," I continue, "but it needs checking. Confirm the breaks, rule out complications, make sure nothing punctured..."
"Agreed," Bastian cuts in, his voice low and clipped. "I'll make the call. Discreetly." He files it away, another piece in the strategic puzzle.
I nod, but fresh air won't help much. Not when the image of Lila's bruises dominates my thoughts. Not when I know there is more she isn’t telling us.
We stand there for a moment, silent, the unspoken weight heavy between us, tension settling like a storm waiting to break.
Then the sound reaches us. Soft. Faint. A barely-there noise drifting through the silence.
A whimper.
Bastian’s head tilts slightly, his body going rigid, attention snapping toward the hallway. My stomach tightens.
Lila.
Bastian meets my eyes, holds my gaze for a charged second - an understanding passing between us - before he mutters, 'I’ve got it.' He strides toward her room, his movements smooth but full of purpose. I exhale, running a hand through my hair, but don’t follow. This is his moment.