Chapter 30
thirty
Elijah
Lia’s apartment feels wrong without her in it.
Not empty, because nothing about this place has ever been empty, not with the way she fills it without trying, with the way her presence lingers in every corner, in the small things she leaves behind without thinking about them, the soft throw over the back of the couch, the books stacked unevenly on the table, the faint scent of her that still clings to the air like it refuses to leave even though she isn’t here to anchor it.
It’s all still here.
Everything that makes this place hers.
And she’s not.
I stand just inside the doorway longer than I should, the quiet pressing in around me in a way that feels heavier than it has any right to, because I know what she looked like hours ago, I know how close I came to losing her, and this, this stillness, this untouched version of her life, doesn’t align with that reality.
It shouldn’t exist like this.
It shouldn’t look like nothing has happened.
The shower has taken the blood from my skin, but it hasn’t taken the memory of it, and I can still feel it if I think about it too long, the heat of it, the way it soaked through everything, the way my hands wouldn’t stop slipping against her as I tried to keep her here.
And the way she went still anyway.
And the way nothing I did stopped that from happening.
My hands flex slightly at my sides.
Clean.
Empty.
Useless.
I hate that.
“She’s going to wake up.”
Jackson’s voice comes from somewhere behind me, steadier than it should be, like he’s holding it in place with effort, and the word when lands in my chest before anything else can, because I need it to be true, because I don’t have room for anything else.
“I’m going to grab some of her things,” he continues, moving through the apartment. “Something familiar. Something she’ll recognize when she wakes up.”
When.
Not if.
I nod without turning, the movement slow, detached, like it takes more effort than it should, because everything feels slightly out of reach, like I’m not fully inside my body anymore.
Zach doesn’t speak immediately, but I feel his attention settle on me, the weight of it unmistakable, the way he watches when he’s trying to understand something that hasn’t been said out loud.
“I’ll help you,” he says eventually, directing it at Jackson, but it isn’t about Jackson.
It’s about me.
It’s about giving me space.
They know that I need some time with her.
Of course they know.
I don’t acknowledge it.
I don’t thank them.
There is nothing in me that can form that kind of response right now without something else slipping through with it.
So I take my keys and leave.
The drive back to the hospital is quieter than the one before.
There’s no urgency left in it, no sharp edge, no direction that requires force or control, and the absence of that leaves something hollow in its place, something that sits heavy and unmoving in my chest.
Paul is dead.
There is nothing left to aim at.
No outlet.
No release.
And without it, everything that had been held in place by that singular focus begins to shift, to settle, to spread into places I can’t contain.
She still hasn’t woken up.
Now there is nothing standing between me and that reality.
Nothing I can do to change it.
Nothing I can fight.
Nothing I can force.
Nothing I can fix.
Nothing I can undo.
I have never been good at that kind of helplessness.
I don’t know how to exist in it.
Lucian and Evelyn are still in the room when I walk in.
They both look up immediately, their attention snapping to me, and Evelyn’s face softens in a way that makes something twist in my chest, like my presence reassures her, like it means something is better now.
“Elijah—”
“Get out.”
The words leave me quietly, but there is nothing in them that can be mistaken, nothing that softens them or gives them space to be questioned.
She freezes.
“What—”
I don’t look at her.
I don’t have the capacity to explain, to soften, to make this something she can process gently.
I look at Lucian.
Just once.
And he understands.
He always does.
He nods, stepping forward, his hand coming to Evelyn’s arm in a way that is both calm and final.
“Come on,” he says, his voice low, steady. “Let’s give him a minute. We’ll get you some coffee.”
She hesitates, her gaze flicking back to Lia, to the stillness of her body, to the machines, to everything that doesn’t look like it should.
Then she lets him guide her out.
The door closes.
And then it’s just me and her.
I don’t move straight away.
I stand there, just inside the room, looking at her, trying to reconcile what I see now with what I saw hours ago, and the disconnect is enough to make something in my chest tighten.
She looks like she’s sleeping.
That’s a lie.
Because I know what sleep looks like.
I know the difference.
I know what it felt like when she stopped breathing.
I know what it felt like to hold her and realize she was slipping somewhere I couldn’t follow.
And the way her weight changed. And the way her chest didn’t move. And the way I couldn’t make it move.
She died.
The thought lands fully this time.
She died in that car.
She stopped breathing in my arms as I carried her into the hospital.
And she still hasn’t come back to me.
My chest tightens so sharply it almost feels like something physical, like something is being pulled apart inside me.
I take a step toward her.
Then another.
Each one slower than it should be, like I’m approaching something fragile, something that might disappear if I move too quickly.
Like I don’t deserve to touch her after failing to protect her.
When I reach the bed, my hand lifts without thought, hovering for a fraction of a second before I touch her, my fingers brushing against her arm, and the warmth of her skin hits me in a way that almost hurts.
“Angel…”
The word doesn’t come out clean.
It fractures.
Breaks against everything sitting in my chest.
I swallow hard, trying again, trying to hold onto something steady, something controlled.
“Angel, I’m here.”
She doesn’t move.
Doesn’t respond.
Doesn’t come back.
And something inside me gives.
I climb onto the bed carefully, every movement deliberate, mindful of the wires, the lines, the machines, and I pull her into me, my arms wrapping around her body like I need to hold her there, like if I don’t, she’ll slip again.
She fits against me too easily.
Too still.
Too quiet.
My hand comes up to cradle the back of her head, pressing her gently into my chest, my face dropping into her hair as I breathe her in, and that’s when it hits fully, when everything I’ve been holding back finally breaks through without anything left to stop it.
“I’m sorry.”
The words come out raw.
Unsteady.
“I’m so fucking sorry, angel.”
My chest tightens, my grip shifting slightly, not enough to hurt her, never to hurt her, but enough to feel her, to keep her close.
“I didn’t keep you safe,” I whisper, the words breaking apart as they leave me, emotion catching on every single one. “I was supposed to protect you. That’s what I do. That’s what I promised, and I didn’t... I didn’t. I should have been there, I should have been there, I should have—”
My voice fails.
I force it back.
“I let him take you,” I continue, the guilt settling heavier with every word. “I let him touch you. I let him hurt you. I wasn’t there when you needed me, and you were alone and I... I should have been there, I should have been there, I should have been there!”
My breathing breaks, my body starting to shake with it.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, over and over, the words tumbling out now, uncontrolled. “I’m so sorry. I should have been there. I should have stopped it. I should have kept you safe. You trusted me to do that and I failed you, I failed you, I failed you.”
The admission lands deep.
It doesn’t leave.
My hand slides down slowly, trembling, coming to rest over her stomach, and the moment I make that connection, the knowledge of what’s there, what I didn’t know, what I didn’t protect, it breaks something open in me completely.
“I didn’t protect you,” I whisper again, softer now, more broken, my voice barely holding together. “I didn’t protect either of you, I didn’t even know and I still should have, I still should have kept you safe anyway, I should have—”
My throat tightens painfully.
“We were supposed to have this,” I continue, the words uneven, emotional, spilling out without control.
“You were supposed to tell me. We were supposed to find out together. I was supposed to be there for that, not... not like this, not in a hospital with you, I should have known, I should have seen something, I should have—”
My voice cracks completely.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, pressing my hand more firmly, protectively, over her stomach. “I’m so sorry I didn’t protect our baby. I should have protected both of you!”
Tears fall freely now, soaking into her hair, my grip tightening slightly as I pull her closer, desperate in a way I can’t control.
“If you come back to me,” I whisper, the words urgent now, almost frantic, like I’m trying to make a promise that will pull her back, “nothing will ever touch you again. Do you hear me? Nothing. I will destroy anything before it ever reaches you. I will not let this happen again, I don’t care what it takes, I don’t care what I have to become—”
My voice drops, rough, shaking.
“I won’t fail you again, I won’t, I won’t let myself fail you again.”
I press my forehead against her hair, my lips brushing against her temple again and again, like I can push the words into her, like I can make her hear me.
“I love you,” I breathe, the words constant now, repeated over and over. “I love you. I love you. I love you, please don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t—”
There is no stopping it.
No controlling it.
“You have too much to live for,” I whisper, my voice breaking again. “You don’t get to leave me. You don’t get to decide you’re done. I won’t let you go like that, I won’t!”
My chest tightens painfully.
“I need you,” I admit, the truth of it hitting hard, undeniable. “I don’t care how selfish that makes me. I can’t do this without you. I don’t want a life without you in it. I won’t have one, I won’t, I can’t!”
My body shakes with it now, everything catching up all at once, the fear, the guilt, the loss I almost felt and still feel like it’s coming if she doesn’t come back to me.
“Come back to me,” I whisper into her hair, my voice barely holding together. “Please, angel. Just come back to me. I’ll fix everything. I swear I will. I’ll be better. I’ll protect you. I’ll protect both of you. Just don’t leave me like this, don’t leave me like this!”
The room stays quiet.
The machines keep moving.
She doesn’t.
My breathing eventually slows, not because I calm down, but because there’s nothing left in me to sustain that level of emotion.
Exhaustion pulls at me, heavy, unavoidable.
I don’t let go of her.
Not even as it takes me under.
I stay wrapped around her, my hand still resting over her stomach, my face pressed into her hair, holding her like she might disappear if I loosen my grip.
And eventually, I fall asleep like that.
Still apologizing.
Still holding on.