Chapter 17 Rowan
ROWAN
Snow rests across the estate grounds in a white blanket that softens the edges of the trees and the long curve of the driveway. The stillness outside the tall sitting room windows rests against the glass, making the house feel even larger than it already is.
I sit curled into the corner of the deep sofa, a mug of hot tea cupped between both hands, letting the warmth seep into my palms as the clock on the far wall ticks, its echo faintly echoing through the room.
The estate never truly sleeps. Security moves through the halls at intervals, boots crossing somewhere deeper in the house and doors opening and closing as patrols rotate, yet without Kiren here, the energy of the place feels off in a way I can’t ignore.
He left hours ago. I sit with the tea warming my hands and breathe in the faint chamomile rising from the mug, though my mind keeps circling back to where he went tonight.
He didn’t walk me through the details before he left, yet he didn’t need to.
I understand enough about the war unfolding around us to know whatever happens out there won’t stay contained to one night.
I take a careful sip and lean my elbow against the arm of the sofa, listening to the silence of the estate and the soft wind brushing across the outer walls.
Footsteps move along the hallway outside the sitting room, slow and careful in a way that makes me lower the mug and turn toward the doorway just as Lila appears there. She pauses with one hand resting lightly against the frame, studying the room before crossing toward me.
Her dark curls are gathered loosely at the back of her neck, and the oversized sweater she wears hangs softly over the bandages wrapped beneath it, where the bullet passed through her side days ago.
Even moving carefully, she holds her body with the quiet caution of someone who knows exactly how easily healing tissue can tear.
“You should be asleep,” she murmurs, easing down into the armchair across from the sofa.
“You should be asleep, too,” I answer, lifting the mug slightly toward her.
The corner of her mouth curves with tired amusement. “Touché.”
I lean forward and slide the teapot from the tray on the low table between us, pouring another cup before handing it across to her. The scent of chamomile fills the space between us.
Neither of us speaks, and the quiet doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Years of shared hospital shifts taught us how to exist in silence while exhaustion wrapped around our shoulders like another layer of clothing.
Lila brings the cup toward her lips and exhales slowly before taking a careful sip.
“Charlotte Memorial must be falling apart without us,” she comments, glancing toward the window before returning her attention to me.
I smile faintly and lean back into the cushions. “Dr. Henson will run the trauma board like a battlefield commander. Half the interns will cry before sunrise.”
Her shoulders lift with a soft laugh that fades into a careful inhale.
“God, the interns,” she replies, shaking her head lightly. “Remember the first night we got the trauma pager during residency?”
I nod slowly. “Motorcycle collision. Three patients at once.”
“And you walked straight into the operating room like you had been doing it for twenty years.”
“That was adrenaline,” I reply.
“That was terrifying,” she counters, lifting her cup again. “You looked calm enough to intimidate everyone else in the room.”
I let out a quiet breath and study the tea swirling gently inside my mug.
Calm is relative. Trauma medicine trains the brain to sort chaos into priorities.
Breathing. Circulation. Bleeding. Stabilize first, ask questions later.
The habit doesn’t disappear when you leave the hospital.
It follows you home, embedding itself in muscle memory and observation. It becomes part of you.
Lila tilts her head and studies my face with a familiar expression that always means she is about to pry into something personal.
“So,” she begins, lowering the mug slowly. “How are you feeling?”
My hand drifts instinctively toward my abdomen before I realize what I’m doing. The motion draws her attention immediately. I let out a soft breath and rest my palm lightly against the fabric of my sweater before returning it to the mug.
“It’s strange,” I admit.
“Strange how?”
I consider the question while my eyes move briefly toward the fireplace where the flames burn low behind the glass.
“Exhaustion that hits out of nowhere,” I explain quietly. “Nausea at the most inconvenient times. Yesterday I almost gagged during lunch because Kiren’s chef was frying fish.”
Lila wrinkles her nose. “That should be illegal.”
“And the cravings,” I continue, rubbing my temple lightly as I remember. “Pickles. Spicy ramen. Orange slices at three in the morning.”
Her laughter fills the room softly, warm and genuine. “Pregnancy cuisine,” she remarks. “Gourmet.”
“I woke up yesterday convinced I needed pineapple and chili powder.”
She leans back in the chair and studies me with amused disbelief. “You have officially entered the bizarre food phase.”
I lift one shoulder. “It might get worse.”
“Oh, it will,” she replies with cheerful confidence. “Just wait until you start combining things that should never exist on the same plate.”
The quiet humor eases tension I didn’t fully recognize sitting beneath my ribs. For a few minutes, we fall into familiar territory, trading hospital stories about overcrowded emergency rooms and the rare patients who somehow defy every medical prediction.
We talk about a complicated surgery Lila performed the week before the kidnapping, and the stubborn cardiologist who refused to leave the operating room until the final sutures were finished.
The easy flow of the conversation pulls us back into a version of the friendship we had before everything went sideways, and it almost feels normal again. For a short while, the war surrounding Kiren and his world fades into the background.
Lila lifts her tea again and glances toward the window beside me.
Snow continues falling across the estate while security lights glow along the distant perimeter, and the quiet lingers comfortably between us until movement at the far edge of the property catches my attention. Headlights moving fast.
I straighten, the mug pausing halfway to my lips while my eyes focus through the glass.
Several beams cut across the darkness near the outer grounds, sweeping along the tree line in tight arcs.
Security vehicles moving far faster than usual.
My stomach tightens immediately, and the change in my posture draws Lila’s attention.
“What is it?” she asks, leaning forward.
I lower the mug onto the table and rise from the sofa, stepping closer to the window while my eyes follow the movement outside. More lights appear along the outer grounds, and the distant sound of engines grows louder as several vehicles converge near the gate. A quiet pressure builds in my chest.
“That’s not routine patrol,” I murmur, my eyes fixed on the distant movement.
Lila pushes herself upright in the chair, one hand braced carefully against the armrest as she turns toward the window.
Before either of us speaks again, a gunshot cracks through the night. The sound cuts across the snowy estate like breaking glass.
For a fraction of a second, my brain searches for a harmless explanation. A branch breaking beneath heavy snow. A door slamming somewhere outside. The mind always reaches for ordinary reasons first. The second shot removes that possibility. Lila gasps behind me, and I am already moving.
“Hallway,” I instruct, my voice calm in the same tone I use during chaotic trauma cases when nurses look to me for direction. “Away from the windows.”
Another burst of gunfire erupts from the outer grounds, the sound echoing across the property while the estate’s security lights blaze to life along the perimeter.
Bright white beams flood the darkness beyond the trees and sweep across the driveway, turning the falling snow into a cloud of drifting crystals that flash in the light.
Lila rises from the chair, one arm tightening instinctively around her side. The healing wound beneath her sweater limits how quickly she can move, and the small strain in her face reminds me how recent the injury still is.
I cross the room quickly and guide her toward the doorway, one hand hovering near her elbow in case her balance slips.
The house suddenly feels too open as another crack of gunfire splits the air outside, followed by two more in rapid succession.
Voices carry faintly across the distance, men shouting somewhere beyond the outer grounds, their words breaking apart before they reach us.
I guide Lila through the doorway and into the interior hallway, where thick walls and distance provide more protection than the wide glass of the sitting room.
“Easy,” I murmur when she draws in a tight breath. “Slow steps.”
“I’m fine,” she insists, though her hand presses instinctively against the bandaged wound at her side, protecting it from the pull of the sutures when she moves.
More gunfire erupts outside. The sound rolls across the estate in uneven bursts now. Multiple weapons. Short, rapid sequences followed by heavier cracks that echo against the stone walls of the house.
My pulse picks up even though I keep my breathing slow. The gunshots sound louder now, close enough to feel immediate. Lila turns toward the sitting room behind us.
“Who is that?” she asks quietly.
My eyes move to the narrow window at the far end of the hallway, where the estate grounds lie beneath the security lights.
“Not security.”
Another burst of gunfire erupts near the outer gate. Through the glass, I catch movement across the snow as several figures push forward along the perimeter road. Not one attacker. A group of dark shapes moving quickly.