Chapter 45 Aurora
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Aurora
The first thing I feel is the shaking.
It isn’t something you can see right away. It’s deeper than that, buried under skin and bone, like something inside me came loose the second the door gave way, and now my body has no idea how to put itself back together again.
The world comes back all at once, too loud and too sharp, edges cutting where they shouldn’t. Metal echoes. Movement blurs. Voices overlap with the lingering impact of violence that hasn’t fully settled into silence yet.
And then…
“Hey.”
Zane.
I don’t remember him crossing the space. One second I’m still on the floor, the next I’m being pulled upright, my balance gone before I can find it again, my knees trying and failing to remember their job.
I don’t fall—he doesn’t give me the chance.
His hands are already there, solid and immediate, like he’s been waiting for the exact moment I would need him. My fingers don’t quite cooperate, but they still find his shirt, clutching at it anyway, grounding myself in his warmth.
Zane doesn’t tell me to calm down. He just pulls me closer, one hand firm at my back, the other bracing me as I tilt toward him, and then his forehead presses gently to mine.
“You’re here,” he says quietly. “You’re here.”
His voice cuts through everything else, low and certain in a way that makes the rest of the noise feel distant.
I focus on that.
On him.
On the rhythm of his breathing, and without thinking, I try to match it.
In. Out. In… it stutters, out…
Still uneven, but closer than it was.
“I’m here,” I echo, because saying it feels like proof. Like if I say it enough times, my body might start to believe me.
My grip tightens in his shirt. “I’m here.”
“I know,” he murmurs.
His hand shifts slightly at my back, like he’s keeping the world level while mine figures out how to spin again.
Something moves in my peripheral vision.
Color. Shape. Familiar.
Finn.
He’s leaning against the wall, one hand pressed to his side, and there’s blood there. Too much of it, bright and spreading through his fingers like he’s pretending it isn’t happening.
And he’s smiling.
Of course he is.
The sight hits somewhere strange, soft and painful all at once.
“Hi,” he says, as if we ran into each other over coffee instead of… this.
My throat tightens. “You’re always bleeding.”
He glances down, then back up, like he’s mildly surprised. “Yeah. I’ve been told that.”
“That’s not…” My voice wavers, and I have to press my lips together to keep it together. “That’s not a joke situation.”
He huffs a sound that might be a laugh. “Little bit of a joke situation.”
“It’s absolutely…”
“You’re alive,” he says softly.
That stops everything.
The words land differently than the rest, real in a way that cuts through the noise.
His smile shifts, less performance now, a steadiness underneath it. “That’s kind of the headline.”
I nod, because I don’t trust my voice to hold if I try to use it again.
Zane’s hand adjusts at my back, like he feels the shift before I do. “Stay with me.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
There’s movement behind Finn then. Heavy. Controlled. Familiar in a way that settles somewhere deeper than thought.
I look.
Ryder.
He stops a few feet away, like there’s something about the distance he doesn’t quite know how to cross yet.
And the entire room bends around that space.
He’s looking at me like he’s trying to reconcile two versions of the world, one where I was here, and one where I wasn’t, and he hasn’t decided which one he believes yet.
There’s blood on his hands.
Not his.
His chest rises once, like breathing is an act he has to choose.
I’ve never seen him like this, raw in a way he doesn’t let himself be.
My body moves before my brain catches up.
Zane loosens his hold just enough, and I step forward… or try to. My legs are unreliable, my balance questionable at best, but it doesn’t matter.
I reach him anyway.
My hands come up to his face without permission.
They’re still shaking. Everything is. But I hold him there, feel the warmth of his skin under my palms, the rough edge of stubble, the tension sitting just beneath the surface like something held too tight for too long.
“I’m okay,” I whisper.
It isn’t entirely true, but it’s close enough to be real, so I cling to it anyway.
“I’m okay,” I repeat, softer now. “I’m here.”
His eyes close, like that’s all it takes for him to finally release everything
His forehead dips, almost touching mine, stopping just short like he’s afraid that if he leans all the way in, this will disappear.
I brush my thumb lightly along his cheek. “I’m here.”
His exhale is quiet. Heavy. Deeper than relief.
When his eyes open again, there’s a difference in them. Still controlled, still him, but the edge of everything that almost broke through hasn’t fully retreated.
My knees give out before I can stop them, the shaking finally catching up with everything else at once.
“Hey…” Zane is there instantly, catching me before I hit the ground, his arm bracing around me, holding me upright as my body tries to fold in on itself. “I’ve got you.”
I let myself lean into it.
Just long enough to not completely come apart.
Ryder moves at the same time. His jacket is off before I fully register it, heavy fabric settling around my shoulders, wrapping me in warmth that smells like leather and smoke and him.
Safe.
The word slips in quietly, without permission.
I don’t question it.
Between them, they keep me standing, or something close to it. Zane takes most of my weight, while Ryder stays close, one hand firm at my shoulder like he’s making sure I stay exactly where he can reach me.
Finn pushes off the wall with a quiet grunt and falls into step like bleeding is a minor inconvenience.
“Group outing,” he mutters. “Love this for us.”
A weak, shaky breath escapes me that almost feels like a laugh. “Shut up.”
“Can’t,” he says. “It’s my whole personality.”
That helps more than it should.
We move toward the door, toward the light. Each step feels slow, heavy, like walking through a thickness rather than air, but they don’t let me stop. They don’t let me fall.
The atmosphere shrouding us shifts as we reach the opening, cooler, cleaner, brushing against my face like the first real breath I’ve taken in hours.
Maybe longer.
I lean into it.
Into them.
Into the fragile, unbelievable reality that I’m not in that room anymore.
That I made it out.
That they came for me.
All of them.
Together.
And as they carry me into the open air, the world finally starts to feel like something I might survive.