9. Annalise
Chapter nine
Annalise
Breakfast will be ready in five, Hunter!” I call, loud enough for him to hear me down the hall.
After the first few days after waking up were filled with awkward conversations, forced small talk, and both of us doing our best to stay out of each other’s way, we’re starting to settle into something that almost feels casual, almost roommate-adjacent. It only took us a week!
One of Korr's first demands was that if we're going to be sharing a house, I had to stop calling him Sir, Captain Korr, and—according to him most frequently, "Asshole"—and start using his actual name.
I countered that if I was going to be staying here, I should be allowed to do all the cooking.
Naturally, neither of us fully accepted the other's terms.
He launched into a lecture about rest, recovery, and the dangers of overexerting myself.
I argued that I desperately needed something to do before boredom drove me insane and that cooking hardly qualified as strenuous activity.
Apparently, recovering patients with holes in their legs aren't supposed to spend an hour on their feet chopping vegetables.
My argument that I'd been surviving much worse before coming to the academy and that it was more mental than physical was practically unheard of as he pointed out that I'd also recently been stabbed, almost bled out, and spent far too long medically sedated.
Unfortunately, that argument was harder to counter.
In the end, we compromised: I make breakfast, we fend for ourselves at lunch, and we alternate cooking dinner…which I hate to admit, I’m pretty damn happy about, because he can cook.
Now, our mornings have settled into an oddly settling routine.
I shower and cook while Hunter goes on his morning run, and then, without fail, he comes back forty-five minutes later drenched in sweat, breathing hard, and looking entirely too damn pleased with himself.
I pretend not to notice. Pretend I’m not watching the clock.
Pretend I’m not mentally counting down the days until my body heals enough for me to run again—until my lungs are burning, my legs are shaking, and I can push myself hard enough to find the mental Zen that’s been evading me since the attack.
It’s pathetic, really, how badly I miss it.
Pouring the last of the coffee into Korr's mug, the heat seeps into my fingers as Hunter emerges from the hallway a moment later, hair damp and pulling his shirt over his head.
“Smells good,” he says, voice rough from his run. His eyes flick to the bandage peeking beneath the hem of my shorts, then to my face. A silent check-in. A habit he thinks I don’t notice.
“Thanks, I figured some breakfast burritos were in order since you have Delta’s first qualifying obstacle course run today. I’ve heard recruits can get a little overzealous."
I smirk up at him, expecting a snort or something, but he’s staring at me like I’m crazy.
“Gods help me, it’s a joke, Hunter.” I pull every ounce of sarcasm into my voice, “I’m sure all of the recruits will be on their very best behavior for you.”
His head shakes as he takes his seat. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re crazy?”
“Maybe a time or two.” I smile bigger, “Has anyone ever told you that you should lighten up and smile more?”
“Maybe a time or two,” he mirrors, and I swear there’s a spark of amusement in his eyes.
Thankfully, he spends most of the time we're eating complaining about how some of the recruits are either dumb enough—or cocky enough—they actually might try something even more reckless than I did if the opportunity presented itself…
Something like the girl who survived the landslide coming to observe their classes this afternoon since I'm still not cleared to ride and Tyr and I have spent most of our days together while I've been on mandatory R&R.
Hunter's stories of their idiotic first week are enough to distract me from my own scheduled itinerary for twenty minutes.
When we’re done eating breakfast, Hunter returns to his room to finish getting ready while I begrudgingly head to the couch, opening my laptop for the daily Mental Health call.
While Hunter had his stipulations for fighting on my behalf, this was Dean Stevens’ lovely little condition for working my way back to classes early.
I was ready to fight her on it. I insisted I didn’t need some stranger poking around in my head, and that I’d be fine on my own. Gods, if she knew half of what I’d lived through, she would have bought it too.
But then I fell into a medicine-induced nap that afternoon, and my years of suppressed trauma decided to call me on my bullshit.
My dad’s fists.
The crack of bone.
Blood in my mouth.
Platt.
Webb.
Pain.
Trapped.
Saliva licking away the scent of iron trickling down my chest.
The usual greatest hits, and I didn't even flinch.
I could’ve handled that. Hell, I have handled that.
But then my mind decided I hadn't suffered enough, because suddenly, I wasn’t the one trapped there anymore.
In my place sat a little boy, four or five years old, with raven-black hair and beautiful blue eyes identical to the ones I’ve seen in the mirror every day of my life. Small and terrified, he was completely defenseless as the monsters from my past closed in around him.
And then he looked at me—reached for me—
“Mommy…”
But there was nothing I could do to save him.
The first cry I heard as my dad hovered over him woke me, and only then did I realize the noise was coming from me. Short of breath, drenched in sweat, and desperate to never have to experience that again, Dean Stevens got her way.
Now, I spend an hour every morning staring at my assigned therapist's face on my screen, falling into flashbacks of the attack that I’d rather compartmentalize than face.
Memories I'd convinced myself had long since faded come rushing back with brutal clarity.
The confusion of waking up one morning and realizing my mom wasn't coming home.
The first time I watched my dad drain an entire bottle of bourbon in a single day.
The first time I heard him beg her to come back.
And the first time he pulled off his belt and beat me because she'd laughed in his face when he asked.
By the end of the calls, I feel far too exposed with every emotion on display—ugly and raw.
But despite the roller coaster we can't seem to halt, she ends each session reassuring me that I'm making progress. She tells me how impressed she is that I'm finally leaning into the breathing techniques she's been swearing will help me over time.
I don't have the heart to tell her the truth.
That every long deep breath isn't truly progress—it's fear.
Fear that I'll never find my way back to myself. Fear that my body won't fully regain it's strength. And worst of all—the bone-chilling fear as the little boy from my dreams steps forward, taking my spot once more in my mind.