Chapter 24
Kyron
Walking for hours sucks, but I won’t stop until I find her.
The others split off to cover more ground. I kept moving.
If I were Nova, where would I go?
Not the main streets. Too exposed. Not anywhere well-lit. She’d want shadows, corners, places to disappear.
I check an alley behind a row of shops. Nothing.
Where would she feel safe?
Stupid question. She probably doesn’t feel safe anywhere. But she’d want walls at her back. A way to see who’s coming before they see her.
Another alley. Empty.
Come on, Nova. Where are you?
I’m guessing. I know I’m guessing. I’ve watched her for weeks but that doesn’t mean I know how she thinks, how she survives, what fifteen years on the streets actually taught her. I’m fumbling in the dark hoping I trip over something useful.
Third alley.
I almost miss her.
She’s tucked against the wall, knees up, arms wrapped around herself. Small. So fucking small, folded into the shadows like she’s trying to disappear.
She’s not moving.
My heart stops.
I’m across the alley before I realize I’m running, on my knees beside her, hands on her face. Her skin is cold. Too cold.
“Nova.”
Nothing.
“Nova, wake up.”
I tap her cheek. Her head lolls.
“Come on. Look at me.”
I press my fingers to her throat. Pulse. Weak, slow, but there.
She’s alive.
The relief almost takes me out.
Then the anger kicks in.
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
She doesn’t answer. Of course she doesn’t—she’s out cold. Exhaustion, exposure, probably hasn’t eaten since she left. Two days out here after two weeks of actual rest. Her body forgot how to do this.
A man walks past the mouth of the alley. Looks right at us. Keeps walking.
I stare after him.
He saw her. Saw a girl on the ground in the cold and just… kept going. Like she was nothing.
Is this what it was like? For fifteen years?
A woman passes. Doesn’t even glance over. A kid on a bike. Nothing.
She’s invisible to them.
All those years. All those nights in places like this while people walked past like she didn’t exist. No wonder she doesn’t know what it looks like when someone actually gives a shit.
I pull off my jacket and wrap it around her. She doesn’t stir.
“I’ve got you,” I say. Stupid, because she can’t hear me. I say it anyway. “I’ve got you.”
I get one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, and lift. She weighs nothing. That’s wrong—she should weigh more, take up more space. But she’s light like she’s been hollowed out by years of not enough.
I start walking.
She shifts against my chest. Her head turns, pressing closer to my shoulder.
Fuck.
“You scared the shit out of me.” My voice is rough. “Two days. Two fucking days of not knowing if you were dead in a ditch somewhere.”
She doesn’t answer. Her breath is shallow against my neck.
“You don’t get to do that again. You hear me?”
Nothing. Just her weight in my arms and the faint warmth of her breathing.
I keep walking.
“I know you’re scared. I know this is…” I shake my head. “I don’t know what fifteen years of nothing looks like. I don’t know how you survived it. But I know what it felt like when you walked into that house. When you looked at me.”
Still nothing. But I keep talking anyway, because she can’t argue back and maybe that makes me a coward but I don’t care.
“You’re ours, Nova. Whether you like it or not. Running doesn’t change that.”
A man steps out of a doorway ahead. Sees me carrying her. His lip curls—disgust, annoyance, I don’t give a shit which—and he steps aside without a word.
I want to put my fist through his face.
I hold her tighter instead.
“I’m going to show you,” I tell her. Quieter now. “Every day until you believe it. This is where you belong.”
She shifts again. Her fingers curl into my shirt.
I stop walking.
Look down at her.
Pale. Dirty. Shadows under her eyes, lips cracked, looking like she’s been through hell and back.
And she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
There you are.
Same thought as that first day. When she walked through the door and my whole world rearranged itself around her.
Her grip tightens on my shirt again.
I start walking faster.
The house comes into view. They’re all on the porch—Locke pacing, Rane gripping the railing, Vaelor standing still as stone. He sees me first. I watch his whole body lock up.
Then Locke’s head snaps around.
They’re running toward me before I can say anything.
“Is she—”
“Alive.” My voice comes out wrecked. “Exhausted. Cold. But alive.”
Locke reaches for her.
I don’t let go.
“Kyron.”
“I’ve got her.”
“Let me—”
“I said I’ve got her.”
We stare at each other. I won’t fight, not with her in my arms. I get it, we both want to be the one holding her, but I’m not giving that up. Not yet.
Vaelor’s hand lands on Locke’s shoulder. “Let him bring her in.”
Locke’s jaw works. But he steps back.
I carry her up the steps, through the door, into the house. Rane’s already clearing the couch, grabbing blankets. Beckett appears with water, sets it down without a word.
I don’t put her down.
“Kyron.” Vaelor’s voice is careful. “She needs to rest.”
I know. I know she does.
But her fingers are still twisted in my shirt.
“Kyron.”
I lower her onto the couch. Her hand slips away and I have to stop myself from grabbing it back.
Rane tucks blankets around her. Vaelor crouches beside her, checking her pulse, murmuring something soft.
I just stand there. Watching her breathe.
Trey’s in the doorway. I almost forgot about him. He looks at her, looks at me, and doesn’t say anything.
He’s smarter than he looks.
“She’s going to be okay,” Vaelor says. “Just needs rest. Food. Warmth.”
“She needs to stop running,” Locke says.
“She needs to know she doesn’t have to,” Beckett says quietly.
We all look at her. Small and pale, wrapped in blankets, finally still.
Home.
That’s what she is for me. She just doesn’t know it yet.