42. Zyran
ZYRAN
Itake the stairs two at a time—three flights—and I don’t slow down. My shoulder catches the wall on the second landing as I turn, but I don’t feel it. I can’t register anything except the sound of her breathing on the phone.
It’s thin, scratchy, and small, but Esperr never sounds small.
The third-floor hallway stretches out in front of me, and her door is only slightly open, which is enough to make everything in me go cold and sharp. Moving quickly, I hit the door with my shoulder, and it swings open hard. I make my way inside?—
She screams. Her voice is high-pitched, immediate, and terrified, and she scrambles backward against the wall as if it will open up. She drops her phone and covers her face.
I stop dead in my tracks, hanging up my phone and pocketing it.
“Hey—” My voice comes out louder than I mean for it. “Mio cuore, baby, it’s me.” I tell her, bending down.
Esperr freezes, her eyes find my face, and for a moment she just looks at me as her chest heaves. I can see the moment she returns—the recognition. Her shoulders drop a fraction as the terror in her eyes shifts into something that breaks me more than the terror did.
Relief.
Like she didn’t know until this second that I was actually going to come.
I take the two steps forward and crouch down in front of her, putting myself in her eyeline so she’s not looking at the mess that I barely caught when I rushed inside.
“I’m right here,” I whisper. “Come on, I got you.”
Esperr looks at me for a few seconds, and then her face just crumbles.
It’s not dramatic, nor the way people fall apart in the films. This is much more quiet; her eyes scan me before she reaches forward, as if my touch were all she needs.
I don’t hesitate; I grab her and wrap both arms coming around her, and she holds onto my jacket with both hands, pressing her face into my chest, shaking.
I fall back onto my ass, holding her tighter while I press my hand to the back of her head, feeling her fingers curl tighter in my jacket.
Scooting us around, I sit with my back against the door and look at her apartment.
The lamp on the floor, the empty bookshelf, the drawers pulled out, the cushions gutted—all of it methodical and deliberate in a way that tells me this wasn’t a random break-in.
My jaw tightens.
Someone was looking for something—or someone was sending a message. Either way it means she’s not safe here and hasn’t been safe here, maybe for longer than either of us knew.
I pull back just enough to look at her face. Her eyes are red and swollen, and she’s shaking, but she’s here, present.
“Can you stand?” I ask her, tucking the few strands that became loose from her messy bun.
She’s hesitant but nods.
I get an arm under her and help her up slowly, and she lets me, doesn’t yell or snap that she’s got this, which tells me more about how bad it was.
Esperr doesn’t let people help her stand up, but this time she keeps one hand in my jacket the whole way, and I keep my arm around her while we just stand there for a second.
“Okay, you’re not staying here tonight; let’s grab you a bag of your stuff, anything memorable.”
She looks at the apartment, and I glance down, watching everything move through her face—grief and then a kind of anger that only comes after fear. But she hesitates to go towards her bedroom.
“I’m not leaving your side,” I remind her.
Esperr looks up at me, eyes searching for the lie that I’m not telling. And while it takes her a second longer than normal, she nods and grabs my hand, nails biting into my skin, but I don’t flinch.
I walk beside her, one foot in front of the other, down the tiny hall and into the bedroom, which is completely wrecked, dresser drawers upside down, clothes strewn about, and her mattress hanging off.
Suddenly she lets go of my hand and moves towards her bed, shoving it back before crouching down. I step further inside, watching as she peels back a piece of the floorboard and then another piece until she’s taken four pieces out. And then she’s reaching inside and pulling out a black bag.
I can’t look away, because it’s already packed.
And something about that hits me square in the chest. It’s not thrown together, or even just halfway done; it’s packed properly, organized, and the zipper closed, sitting tucked under her floorboard like some part of her never once stopped being ready to leave.
She looks at the bag, and there’s something sitting in her expression that I recognize because I’ve seen versions of it before—it’s always on people who have spent so long preparing for the worst that being seen doing it feels like an admission of something they weren’t ready to admit.
I don’t say anything, and I don’t even make a sound as I reach past her and pick the bag off the bed and sling it over my shoulder.
Esperr stands up and glances around the room once like she’s saying goodbye to something she didn’t expect to say just yet. And then she blows out a breath, a small hiccup, before she grabs my hand again and tucks herself against me once more.
I close my hand around hers and lead her through the apartment slowly, keeping my eyes moving the entire time—the kitchen, the living room, the front door—taking in the damage properly.
My jaw tightens, and I look down at her, at the top of her head tucked against my shoulder, and I think about the prepacked bag.
About Oliver not answering, about all the small things that have been sitting at the edge of the last few weeks that I filed away and didn’t push because she wasn’t ready.
Well, I’m done waiting. This is about her safety, and I won’t let her push me away when it comes to that.
“Come on… let’s get you out of here,” I say quietly, and pull the front door open, guiding her through.
The microwave hums, and I stand there in front of it with my arms crossed, watching the plate turn all while the only thing I can think about is the bag under her floorboard. I try not to think about it; I’ve tried not to since the moment we stepped outside of her apartment.
And it's not working.
Raiden comes in from the hallway, stopping when he sees me, and does a quick read of the room the way he always does—taking in the microwave going, the dim lights, and the fact I’m standing here watching the thing, waiting for the last damn second.
He moves past me and grabs a mug before pouring himself a cup and leaning against the counter.
Neither of us says anything for a minute, and then the microwave beeps and I’m yanking the door open, pulling the plate out. Setting it down, I grab a fork, and then find myself looking at the food, wondering whether she’s eaten anything today and feel fairly certain the answer is no.
“She upstairs?” Raiden asks, his voice sounding louder in this quiet kitchen.
“Yeah.”
“Is she okay?”
I glance over my shoulder at him, expecting him not to be interested in her well-being but surprised when I find the smallest amount of concern.
“She will be,” I mutter. It might not be the answer that he was wanting, but it’s the most honest answer I have right now.
Raiden nods, leaning forward to put both elbows on the island and resting his chin on his hands while looking at the plate on the counter in front of me.
“You going to tell me what happened?” He asks.
I open my mouth to tell him what happened, but the more I think about it, the more that I realize I have no idea. I suspect someone is after her; it doesn't take a genius to know that, but if I tell him that, he’ll want to know the who, what, where, and why. I don’t have those answers.
“I don’t know,” I finally mumbled.
He blows out a breath. “Rhys look into her?”
“Yeah, before the storm…” I turn, leaning back against the counter and crossing my arms over my chest. “Early on, nothing alarming, I mean, no record, no red flags, as Rhys said, run-of-the-mill, some medical notes of chronic pain—it’s migraines.
” I pause. “But I mean you were there when I told Cyran everything?—”
“I know what you told us,” he interrupts. “I’m asking what you know now, tonight.”
“Her parents are gone; she grew up cleaning bodies from the time she was six. She talks about them in past tense, never directly, but it’s there. Been running from something for a long time, and I think that today whoever she’s been running from found her.”
Raiden’s jaw tightens, and he’s quiet for a moment, and I know it before it happens—the weighing, the part of him that has always been responsible for keeping this family alive, running the risk—and this time I don’t want him looking at them when it comes to Esperr. She’s my concern and no one else's.
“Someone being after her brings danger into this house.” His tone is strict and stern. And I hate it; I have hated it since I was little and he would pretend to be my father.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“I’m not saying?—”
“Oh, I know exactly what you’re saying, and I’m telling you, don’t.” I snap, stepping forward. “She’s mine, my responsibility, and you’re over here trying to control everything, trying to weigh the options and the risk. Well, don’t.”
“It is my job!” His voice comes up, that certain edge that means Raiden is done being careful. “It has always been my damn job to make sure the people in this fucking house stay breathing, and I’m not going to apologize for doing it.”
“Nobody’s asking you to apologize for doing it,” I growl.
“Then let me do it.” He stands up from the stool, hands braced on the counter. “Someone is after her, Zyran, someone who found her apartment, went through her things, and you brought her here! To our house, and without telling any of us what we were walking into.”
“I didn’t know the full picture; I still don’t?—”
“You knew enough!” He snapped. “You’ve known something was off for weeks, and you still said nothing.”
“Oh, like you said nothing when you brought Sybil here.” The words come out hot and fast. “Her father had already tried to have her killed. We had targets on our backs the second she walked through that gate and not one of us said a word because she was yours and we trusted you.” I take another step forward.
“So you don’t get to stand in our kitchen and talk to me about risk, not when I was the one who got shot trying to save your girl and you! ”
The kitchen goes completely silent, and I’m left with Raiden staring at me.
But it’s not in the way he stares when he’s angry—this is different.
Something I’ve never seen on my brother's face before, like I just said something that knocked the wind out of him, and he doesn’t know what to do with that.
And I immediately hate myself for it.
The words are already out there, and like a chicken shit that I am, I spin around, grab her food that’s probably cold by now, and walk out of the kitchen. He doesn’t stop me, and somehow that’s worse than if he’d yell or punch me, for that matter.
Walking through the living room, the stairs feel further away and then longer than usual as I climb them.
I blamed him.
Seventeen months of carrying that warehouse, of waking up at three in the morning on the floor of my room because my body forgot it wasn’t on that concrete anymore.
All this time, I watched Raiden rebuild himself after what happened.
I never once blamed him for anything… not until I opened my mouth in the kitchen because I was scared of something happening to her.
I was angry, and everything just came out.
I reach the top of the stairs and then come to a halt. Pressing my back against the wall, I stand in the hallway with a plate of lukewarm leftovers in my hand as my chest does something I refuse to admit.
There are too many things running through my mind: Esperr in my room, someone breaking into her apartment, the bag under her bed, and the knowledge that she could flee at any moment. All of it is pressing in from every direction and nowhere to put any of it.
I drag a breath in through my nose and push off the wall, going to my room.
Pushing the door open, I stop when I find her curled up in the middle of my bed, sleeping.
She has the blanket pulled up around her shoulder, her face pressed into the pillow with one hand loose near her chin.
The lamp on the nightstand is still on, casting everything in a low, warm light.
I stand there for a moment and just look at her.
Someone is after her, and she’s hiding it from me.
That’s the part that keeps hitting me: not just that someone found her apartment, not just the pre-packed bag or the way she sounded on the phone, but that she knew. She’s known for a long time that someone was out there, and she decided somewhere along the way to keep it a secret from me.
And then I think about Oliver, about the way she brushed it off, though I know it’s running repeatedly in her head.
I think about every small moment over the last few weeks where I felt the edges of something she wasn’t saying, and I gave her space because I thought she’d get there when she was ready.
She wasn’t getting there.
She was managing me.
I set the plate down on the nightstand a little harder than I intended, but she doesn't move. Standing here, staring at her sleeping, I’m feeling two contradictory emotions: how much I love her and how angry I am.
The anger isn't at her exactly but at the situation, at whoever put this fear in her, and at the fact that she’s been carrying something this heavy alone when she doesn’t have to be.
But the more I think about it, the more it dawns on me that maybe I am a little angry at her.
And I hate that I am.
I reach forward and shut the lamp off before I take a step back and then another until I’m backing out of the room and heading back downstairs to the gym—to the only place that feels safe right now.