Chapter 29 Hadrian #2
I knock on the door. I don’t pause to wait for her response, hoping that if she is comfortable in bed, she can stay there, so I ease the door open a fraction.
“Starlet,” I call, keeping my tone even. “It’s me.”
I wait. Letting the silence stretch to give her time. I don’t step in yet—don’t crowd her space or trample boundaries she didn’t invite me past.
Fuck me, I want to, though.
“Maeve,” I try again.
Still nothing. No huff. No sharp inhale. Not even a muttered fuck off drifting out from the dark. Either she’s ignoring me, or—
I can’t think about the alternative.
My pegasus claws at my ribs, frantic now. His wings beat hard enough it feels like my skull might split open from the pressure.
I swallow, forcing my voice to stay level. “I’m coming in. I won’t touch you. I’ll leave if you want me to—but I need to see that you’re okay, little starlet.”
I open the door properly, the words barely leaving my mouth before my stomach drops.
The room is dim. Curtains mostly drawn, just a narrow sliver open—enough for her to look out, not enough to let the world see back in.
Street light leaks through the gap, washing the carpet in a moody pale grey.
My eyes go to the bed first. It’s made. Too neat.
Untouched.
Her phone lies on top, abandoned like she never meant to come back to it.
Fuck.
The call never went well, then.
I follow the line of my gaze downward, and my breath catches as soon as I see it.
Her dress.
The red fabric is torn in half—ripped unevenly, like she couldn’t get it off fast enough.
Like it was burning her alive.
What the fuck did this?
Why would she—
My chest tightens hard enough it hurts.
I step inside her room and close the door behind me with deliberate care, easing it shut until it clicks softly into place.
I don’t want to disturb her, but she trapped herself in this bubble for a reason. The others shouldn’t see this. It already feels invasive enough being here myself.
My eyes adjust quickly.
She’s curled forward in the armchair, folded in on herself like she’s trying to disappear.
Bare shoulders. Bare legs. Skin too pale in the low light. Arms wrapped tight around her middle, nails digging into her own skin like that’s the only thing holding her together.
I can see scratches. So many red patches of irritated skin.
Blood.
I can smell it, the copper burning my throat.
Her hair’s half fallen from its bun, strands clinging to her cheek.
And her eyes—they’re open, but she’s not here. Not mentally present.
That’s the part that scares me the most.
If she’s not in this moment, then which nightmare has her hostage? Which memory has dragged her in, holding her captive? What is she reliving—what’s tearing at her from the inside while I stand here useless?
My pulse slams hot and fast. My pegasus rears, desperate to shield her, to put himself between her and whatever hell her mind has decided to torture her with.
But you can’t fight someone else’s memories, no matter how hard you try.
And that makes me feel more helpless than anything ever has.
He falters because there’s nothing to trample. No enemy to gore, no battle to be had. It’s just ghosts.
I take a careful step forward, slow enough not to spook her if she does manage to notice.
“Maeve,” I say quietly. Barely more than breath. “Can you hear me?”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.
Fuck.
I cross the room in three strides and drop to my knees in front of her chair.
I don’t touch her, no matter how much my pegasus pleas.
No matter how much I want to rip her from the chair and wrap her into my arms, holding her safe in my lap.
I’m near enough that she’ll know I’m here if there’s any part of her still listening—still aware.
The need to protect her hits hard and fast—wild, instinctive, ugly in its intensity. I’m close enough now to see the tear tracks carved into her skin, dried salt on her cheeks.
Her breathing is so shallow it barely stirs the air.
Too shallow.
She’s wearing only her underwear—not even a bra—exposed in a way that makes my chest ache.
In any other world, any other moment, I’d have been ruined by the sight of her like this.
But here?
It’s wrong.
Twisted.
Tainted.
I hate myself for even noticing.
“Starlet,” I murmur, voice rough around the edges. “If you can hear me… blink.”
Nothing.
My jaw tightens, but I don’t let it leak into my voice. I won’t scare her. I won’t push.
“Okay,” I say softly. “That’s fine.”
It’s fine. It is.
I pause, giving her space, even though every instinct in me screams to close the distance.
It’s not fucking fine.
“Breathe,” I add, quieter. “Just… breathe. That’s all. In. Out. You don’t have to do anything else, little starlet. In. Out.”
Her chest lifts. Barely.
A thin, shaking inhale—but it’s there.
Proof of life.
My pegasus stills at the sign of movement, panic bleeding into something sharp and watchful. Protective.
The knot in my chest loosens just enough that I don’t feel like I’m about to tear apart at the seams.
She’s still here.
And as long as she is, so am I.
I stay where I am—knees on the carpet, hands on my thighs—because she doesn’t need my panic in here with hers. She’s got enough of her own to drown in.
My pegasus settles, coiling low beneath my skin. No more thrashing like a wild animal.
I draw in a breath, slow and obvious, making it something she can catch onto if she’s still in there somewhere.
“In,” I murmur before silently counting to four. “Out.”
Her shoulders twitch—barely—but I notice. It’s something.
“You’re in your room,” I say quietly. “In Draven’s flat. The guys are all in the living room. Nobody can get past them. The curtains are drawn. The door’s closed. It’s just you and me here, starlet, you and me.”
I sink back onto my heels so I’m not crowding her, not looming like a threat. I keep my hands flat on my thighs, palms visible, just in case.
Her boundaries matter. Especially when she can’t speak them.
“I’m not here to make you talk,” I add. “Or fix anything.”
A sharp exhale slips out before I can stop it. “I don’t know what he said. I don’t know what memory he’s triggered. But I’m fucking furious that he’s got this hold over you.”
I swallow, throat tight, and force the next words out anyway.
“I need you back in here with me, love. You don’t get to disappear without me.” I tip my head, watching for any sign she’s caught it. “Selfish, I know. But that’s kind of the Graves brand, isn’t it?”
Her breath stutters. A tiny pull at the corner of her mouth—so faint I almost miss it.
My pegasus whines in approval, kicking my skull in a silent ‘do it again, numbskull.’
I tilt my head, studying her without staring, cataloguing details the way I was taught to assess damage.
Her skin is flushed and overstimulated. Blood on her nails. Raised scratches. Red marks scored into her arms.
Fuck, she’s killing me.
“I’m going to talk for a bit,” I tell her. “You don’t have to listen. But it’ll stop me dying from boredom while you’re indulging in your trauma reels.”
It’s a lie. I’m a fucking cunt for throwing her struggle in her face.
All I’m really doing is buying time—trying to drag her back with the sound of my voice because touching is a hard no, but words… words she’s already reacting to.
I’m not good at talking. Not like Lucifer, who can bullshit for a full day and still have more. Not like Draven who can wield words like a weapon and get the most powerful of people to do his bidding.
Not even like Julian, who knows how to make his voice soft and charming enough that people forgive him for being an idiot.
But for her, I can try.
No. For her, I’ll succeed.
“I came in because you didn’t come out,” I continue, keeping my tone even. “And that scared us.”
A pause, then I add, because she’ll appreciate the jab, even half absent. “Draven’s the one you can thank for holding up the entire building with his shoulders. I swear, he’s moulded himself to the walls.”
I search for the right quip—something outrageous enough to hook her attention and yank.
My mouth twitches despite myself. “I laughed. Probably should’ve been offended, considering we’re identical, but, honestly, when Julian’s face is twisting up in thought, I’d have to agree with my cousin.”
She blinks. Once. Twice. Three times.
And then, tears swell in her eyes.
My stomach twists because I can’t tell if this is progress or the start of something worse.
My heart thuds hard against my ribs. My pegasus shifts restlessly under my skin, ready to bolt, ready to fight, ready to do anything except sit here and watch her bleed from the inside.
“Maeve,” I say gently. “Your arms are bleeding, sweetheart. Can you loosen your grip?”
Her eyes flick to her forearm, and her pupils blow wide.
Her mouth parts, breath catching like she’s seeing the damage for the first time—like those half-moon gouges weren’t carved there by her own hands.
Fuck. She’s been out of it longer than I thought.
I shift my weight slowly and deliberately, making sure she can track every movement if she needs to. I reach into my pocket and pull out a packet of tissues.
I don’t know if she’ll be okay using this brand, but they’re all I’ve got.
I’m not as prepared as the rest of her men, but I’ll create myself a mini-Maeve kit so that I am.
Not that I’ll be able to ask those cunts for information on the right brands.
“I’m not going to touch you,” I say. “I’m just putting these here. If you want them, they’re yours.”
I place the tissues on the armrest beside her—close enough to reach, far enough not to feel like a demand.
“They’re not designer,” I add because the silence feels dangerous. “Just cheap ones. Tragic, I know, but I don’t have the endless coffers that you and the rest of them do.”
Well, provided we ignore my inheritance that I’ve refused to touch and the account that Adrian secretly set up for me.
Knowing what I do now, it’s a good thing I didn’t rely on that.