25. Ryan #3
“Ryan.” His tone is soft but firm.
“I’m trying not to freak out,” I confess.
His expression eases. “Ah.”
“Don’t ‘ah’ me.”
A guttural sound interrupts us. We both snap our heads toward Henri. He’s crouched by his cane, fingers trembling as he reaches for the ivory handle. His hand comes away empty. The cane clatters across the polished floorboards, clicking as it spins into the shadows.
His shoulders slump, as though every year of his life has settled into that moment. My heart lurches. Ten minutes ago, I wanted him dead. I still do—probably. But theory and reality collide, and watching a man’s fear feels unforgivingly personal.
Henri lurches toward a nearby armchair. Camille is already there, catching him under the elbow before he collapses. My head snaps to them.
Camille’s brow creases. “What? I am not letting him split his skull open.”
“You’re nicer than I am.”
“No. I prefer the police find an intact crime scene.”
“Put him down,” I mutter as Camille lowers Henri gently into the upholstery. The leather creaks.
Henri tries to shove him away, but his strength betrays him. “Get away.”
Camille slides back, hands raised in peace.
Henri’s chest heaves—each inhale an effort, measured as though he’s afraid his body will betray him if he doesn’t watch every breath. “What’s happening?” he rasps.
Camille kneels beside the chair, voice steady. “Paralysis.”
Henri’s gaze floats across the room and lands on me. Hatred blazes there, hot and unyielding. “You did this.”
I swallow, throat dry. “Yes.”
“Stupid little animal.”
“What happened to nice Grandpa?” I laugh awkwardly.
Henri’s stare never leaves me. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”
Maybe I don’t. Adrenaline once made everything clean—he was the monster, Camille was in danger, I had a weapon, and I used it. Now, my hands tremble. I fold my arms to hide them, but he senses it.
He offers a faint, cruel smile. “Regret already?”
“No.” The word flies out too fast.
“Ryan,” Camille says quietly.
“I’m fine.”
Henri coughs, harsh and rattling. “You killed me.”
My heart twists.
Camille swivels toward Henri. “You are still speaking, Henri.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No. I know you’re trying to frighten him.”
Henri’s laugh is weak, bitter. “He should be frightened.”
I am. I resent him for being right.
Camille slides between Henri and me, a human shield. “Look at me.”
I obey, voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m looking.”
“Are you injured anywhere besides your shoulder?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Did anything happen when you prepared the syringe?”
My mouth turns to dust. “No.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“I need you to tell me if there’s even the slightest possibility—”
“There isn’t.”
“Ryan.”
“I was careful.”
Camille’s eye dips closed. A tremor shivers through his frame—relief, maybe. When he opens that eye again, his gaze is fierce, wanting to scream. “You were careful.”
“Yeah.”
“Handling venom.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Alone.”
“I mean, technically, the snakes were there,” I mumble.
He presses both hands to his face, then yanks them away with a hiss as he brushes the gash on his cheek.
“See?” I say. “You’re not exactly making excellent decisions either.”
He scowls.
Henri coughs again—wetter, more labored. We both turn. His skin has taken on a waxy pallor, sweat beading at his temples despite the stale coolness.
Camille moves in closer, attentive. “What are you feeling?”
Henri stares up at him, defiance flickering in his eyes. “Do not speak to me like a subject.” Henri’s glare could curdle blood.
“Where the hell are the police?” Camille mutters.
Suddenly, blue pulses of light flicker between the trees—once, then twice. Sirens waver on the wind, distant but unmistakable. My knees wobble.
“They’re here.”
Camille exhales, tension draining from his shoulders. Henri’s eyes widen. He tries to push himself up, but his body fails him, and he collapses back into the chair. “Camille.” For the first time, there’s no mockery in his voice. No command. Just fear.
Camille leans down, hand on Henri’s shoulder. “I know you’re afraid.”
Henri closes his eyes.
The sirens climb to a howl. Camille crouches next to Henri, as cautious as a doctor with a broken patient. I sink onto the sofa, legs too weak to hold me. My hands shake on my lap.
I stare at them—these same hands that chose violence. I replay the moments I’d rather forget—the needle puncturing skin, the plunger giving way, Henri’s face in shock and betrayal.
“Ryan.” Camille’s voice is gentle but insistent.
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.”
Neither is Henri. He lies perfectly still, breathing shallowly until even that fades away.
Camille reaches out, checks Henri’s pulse, then sits back, eyes meeting mine. “He’s gone.”
Sirens roar directly outside now. I rise, vertigo rippling through my skull. Camille stands too, and for a heartbeat we hold each other upright, neither sure who’s supporting whom.
“I love you too,” I murmur, digging my fingers into his jacket.
He freezes, gaze flicking to mine. The man who told me he loved me, who marched toward death with a calm smile—he’s the only one keeping me anchored now.
I shove gently against him, and he embraces me, arms locking around my back so firmly it hurts. I bury my face in his chest, breathing against the fabric of his shirt.
“You fucking asshole,” I curse.
His breath catches in my hair. “I know.”
“You left me.”
“I know.”
“You told me you loved me and then you left me.”
“I know.”
“That was psychotic.”
“I was trying to keep you alive.”
“So was I.”
His arms hug me tighter. “I noticed.”
I pull back a fraction to glare up at him. “You don’t get to be mad at me.”
“I am absolutely furious with you.”
“Hypocrite.”
“Yes.”
“At least you admit it.”
“I find that confession improves character.”
Despite everything, I laugh—a harsh, ragged sound that stings my throat.
It curdles into a sob. Camille’s face softens.
He reaches for my cheek, hesitates. I catch his wrist and guide his palm to my skin.
Warm. Living. Nothing like Henri’s. And somehow everything like him.
At that moment, I understand that being human isn’t the problem.
Choice is. How you wield another person’s trust. How you honor their “no.” Whether love binds you tightly or teaches you to open your hands.
I lean into his palm. “I’m still mad at you.”
“I know.”
“I mean really mad.”
“I know.”
“I might be mad for months.”
“I would be grateful for months.”
My throat tightens. “Don’t say shit like that.”
“Sorry.”
“Also stop apologizing.”
His lips twitch. “You are giving me conflicting instructions.”
“Figure it out. You’re supposed to be smart.”
Beyond us, the front doors slam open. Officers’ boots clatter on the hardwood; voices echo down the hall. Camille turns reflexively. I grab his shirt. He looks back.
“You’re not leaving me again.”
His gaze softens. “No.”
“Promise.”
“I promise.”
The weight of that word presses between us—promises haven’t fared well in this family.
I swallow. “Okay.”
He rests his forehead against mine. Behind us, Henri Voclain slumps dead in an armchair. Ahead of us, police flood the house, their shouts filling the air.
Camille could leave.
I could leave.
Neither of us does.