Chapter Ten
Kade
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Three days.
It’s been three days since the Gala and she’s hardly spoken a word.
She moves through the house like a ghost, drifting from room to room without seeing any of it.
I find her staring into blank space often, eyes unfocused, breath shallow, body still.
Her father and brother keep coming in to check on her, but she doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look up.
She doesn’t react to their voices, their hands, their presence.
She just sits there, folded in on herself, somewhere far away.
I’m starting to worry for her.
I try to remain patient, coaxing her slowly back into the routine she’s neglected.
I place a small plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of her.
She finally left her childhood bedroom long enough for me to try to get more than a few bites of food into her system.
She sits at the kitchen island, shoulders slumped, hair unbrushed, eyes fixed on the marble countertop like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the world.
I place a can of Monster next to the plate.
Her eyes fall on it, the first flicker of recognition I’ve seen in days.
“You can have that once you’ve eaten something,” I say, voice low, steady, full of concern I don’t bother hiding. “Christ, Bunny, you’re wasting away.”
She doesn’t answer, doesn’t even blink. But her fingers twitch, just slightly, like the sound of my voice reached her through the fog.
I watch her closely, every breath, tremor, every tiny movement.
She’s here, but she’s not, she’s breathing, but she’s not living.
She’s sitting upright, but she’s barely holding herself together.
I slide the plate a little closer to her, slow and gentle, not wanting to startle her. Her eyes stay on the Monster can, like it’s the only thing she recognizes, the only thing that feels familiar.
“Just a few bites,” I murmur. “You don’t have to finish it. Just enough to keep you standing.”
Her throat moves.
A swallow.
Small.
Barely there.
But it’s something.
I sit beside her, close enough that she can feel me, far enough that she doesn’t feel crowded. I don’t touch her. Not yet. She’s too fragile, too quiet, too lost in the aftermath of everything she let out in that basement.
But I’m here. I’m not leaving. Not for a second.
And I will keep coaxing her back to herself, piece by piece, until she finally looks at me again.
For a long moment, nothing happens.
She doesn’t blink.
She doesn’t breathe any deeper.
She doesn’t look at me.
Then her hand moves, small, shaky, barely controlled.
She picks up the fork. Her fingers tremble around it, like even that weight is too much.
She drags it through the eggs, slow and clumsy, lifting the smallest bite I’ve ever seen. She hesitates, the fork hovering halfway to her mouth, her eyes unfocused, her breath uneven.
I don’t speak.
I don’t push.
I don’t move.
I just watch.
She brings the fork to her lips.
She takes the bite.
My chest tightens. Relief hits me so hard I have to steady myself against the counter.
It’s one bite. One tiny bite. But it’s the first thing she’s chosen to do for herself in three days.
The first sign she’s still fighting. The first sign she hasn’t disappeared completely into whatever hell she’s been trapped in.
“Good,” I whisper, voice low, careful not to startle her. “That’s good, Bunny.”
She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t speak. But she takes another bite. Even smaller than the first. Her hand shakes so badly the fork nearly slips from her fingers.
I reach out, slow and gentle, placing my hand over hers to steady it. She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t flinch. She just lets me hold her hand, lets me guide the fork back to the plate, lets me be the anchor she needs.
“You’re doing so well,” I murmur. “Just keep going.”
Her throat moves again. Another swallow. Another bite.
And for the first time in three days, I feel her coming back to me. Not all at once. Not loudly. Not clearly.
But piece by piece.
Bite by bite.
Breath by breath.
She’s still here. And I will not let her slip away again.
Mara
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The fork feels heavy in my hand, heavier than it should.
I bring the bite to my mouth anyway, tasting nothing, but feeling the warmth settle somewhere low in my stomach.
It’s unfamiliar after days of emptiness.
Something shifts inside me, small and fragile, but enough to make the fog thin around the edges.
I notice the chair beneath me, the cold marble under my fingertips, the quiet hum of the house.
I notice Kade beside me, the way he sits close without touching, the way he watches me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he looks away.
The second bite is harder. My hand shakes, my throat tightens, my eyes sting.
I don’t know if it’s the food or the act of trying.
I don’t know if it’s the exhaustion or the memory of everything that happened in the basement.
I just know something inside me moves, a small pulse that wasn’t there yesterday.
Kade steadies my hand when the fork slips, his fingers warm against mine.
He doesn’t speak at first. He just holds my hand until the tremor passes.
When he does speak, his voice is quiet, careful, meant to keep me anchored.
I hear him, and the sound reaches me through the haze in a way nothing else has.
I take another bite, even smaller than the last, and the fog thins a little more.
I feel the ache in my chest. I feel the exhaustion in my bones.
I feel the weight of the last three days pressing down on me.
And beneath all of that, buried deep, I feel something else.
A spark. A faint, trembling thread of life that makes my breath catch.
I don’t look at him. I can’t. Not yet. But I feel him.
The way his breath shifts when I swallow.
The way he leans in just slightly, as if he’s trying to shield me from the world without touching me.
I finally look up at him. It happens slowly, like my neck has forgotten how to move, like my eyes have to fight through the fog to find him.
When they do, I see the exhaustion carved into his face.
Dark circles beneath his eyes, the kind that come from too little sleep and too many nights spent sitting beside me, chasing away nightmares I can’t even remember clearly.
His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, his whole body pulled thin with worry.
He looks like he hasn’t breathed properly in days.
My heart lurches, a small, uneven movement that feels foreign after three days of nothing. It’s not comfort. It’s not relief. It’s just awareness, sharp and sudden, like a nerve waking up after being numb too long.
Footsteps shift at the doorway. My father steps into the kitchen, slower than usual, careful in a way that makes something twist inside me.
His eyes land on my hand, the hand shakily wrapped around the fork, and I watch the way his expression changes.
Pride flickers across his features, soft and fragile, but he doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t move closer. He stays still, watching me the way a hunter watches a deer in the forest, terrified that one wrong sound will send it bolting back into the trees.
He stands there with his hands at his sides, fingers curled slightly, like he’s fighting the urge to reach for me.
His eyes shine with something heavy, something he’s been carrying since the basement, something he hasn’t said out loud.
He looks at me like I’m a miracle and a wound at the same time, like he’s afraid to breathe too loudly in case it breaks whatever fragile thing is happening in front of him.
I don’t look away from either of them.
I don’t speak.
I don’t know if I can.
But I feel something.
Small.
Unsteady.
Alive enough to hurt.
“I…” The word scrapes out of me, hoarse and thin, my voice barely recognizable after three days of silence.
It feels foreign in my throat, brittle, like it might break apart if I try to force anything else out.
I reach for the glass of water in front of me, my hand trembling as I lift it, needing the coolness against my lips before I can attempt another sound.
“I’d like to go home.”The words come out uneven, strained, like they’re being dragged through gravel. Hearing my own voice feels wrong, too loud in the quiet kitchen, too unfamiliar after days of nothing.
My father’s gaze snaps up to meet mine. His eyebrows pull together, worry carving deep lines across his face.
He looks older than he did three days ago, worn down by fear and guilt and sleepless nights.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” His voice is careful, controlled, like he’s afraid that even speaking might shatter whatever fragile piece of me has surfaced.
“I need to leave.”
My eyes drop back to the plate in front of me.
The eggs blur. The fork trembles in my hand.
I can’t stand to be inside these walls for another moment.
Every corner holds a memory I don’t want to touch.
Every hallway feels too tight. Every breath tastes like the past clawing its way up my throat.
The fear sits under my skin, restless and sharp, refusing to let me breathe properly.
I need to get out of here before it kills me.
My father nods in response, the motion small and tight, like he’s holding himself together with the last thread he has left. “I’ll have Will pack your things for you. Kade, I’m assuming you will take her home?” His voice strains around the words, stretched thin with worry he’s trying not to show.