38. Valaria
Valaria
That night, they give me a suite. A silk robe. A meal on a silver tray. The suite is too quiet. Too clean. Too much like my own coffin dressed up in velvet and silk.
I pace the length of the room, my bare feet whispering against the carpet, counting my own heartbeats because it’s the only proof, I’m still alive.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stand again two seconds later.
I’ve never been good at waiting. Not when it comes to him.
I press my palm to the door, testing the seam for any weakness. The lock is electronic, reinforced—no easy way out. Not without drawing every guard in the facility. I force myself to turn away, though the part of me that’s still feral wants to start tearing the walls down with my bare hands.
Instead, I cross to the table where they left the tray. Silver domes gleaming under the chandelier—a mockery of hospitality. I lift each one. A perfect meal. A glass of wine. A folded linen napkin.
I don’t eat. I can’t. No appetite.
I imagine Pietro eating alone somewhere in a cell, if they’ve bothered to feed him.
Or maybe he’s not hungry—he’s dead.
That thought sends me back to the door.
I wrap my arms around my middle, trying to hold myself together. The suite smells of roses and expensive soap, but I taste the chemical tang of fear, the bitter edge of betrayal I saw in his eyes. He never betrayed me. Not really. I see it now.
But denying any memory of him was the only way.
I tell myself that again and again.
Minutes crawl past like hours. The quiet grows thicker, more suffocating. Every gust of air from the vents sounds like a footstep.
I press my forehead to the cool stainless-steel wall.
Is he still here?
Did he run? I imagine searchlights sweeping the grounds in steady arcs. A wall of darkness beyond the fences.
He should have.
I close my eyes, fighting the panic that wants to rip through me.
What if they’ve taken him somewhere I can’t reach?—
What if?
No.
Pietro doesn’t vanish quietly. He doesn’t surrender—not really.
He’ll come.
He has to.
And then?—
A soft scrape. A change in the air.
I turn, pulse roaring in my ears, the door slides open with a hush.
He stands in the doorway.
Wild-eyed. Alive.
Bloodied. Bruised.
Mine.
I run to him.
We don’t speak.
We just crash.
Mouths. Hands. Desperate for comfort.
We fall onto the bed, tangled in robes and weapons and urgency. He pulls me to him like I’m the only thing keeping him alive.
And I am.