Kade
She finally slept.
Curled under the blanket like she was trying to vanish inside it. Chest rising slow, her face pale, lips cracked, dark lashes like bruises against her cheeks. Like a porcelain doll left in the rain.
She looked peaceful.
She looked dead.
And it made something snap inside me all over again.
I stood by the window, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached. Outside, the forest swayed, calm and uncaring. Somewhere, an owl cried. It felt… too quiet. Too normal.
Too fucking wrong.
She was dying.
And we didn't know.
We thought we were playing some long, twisted game of protection—watching from a distance, pushing her away to keep her close, keeping her under the radar. Like it would somehow keep her safe if she hated us instead of trusting the wrong person.
But we didn't see what was happening right in front of us.
Her bones were breaking.
She was starving.
That girl—that girl—was dragging herself through each day on pure survival instincts, and we thought she was just… quiet.
"Fuck," I muttered under my breath.
I wanted to punch something. Anything. My fists twitched at my sides, and I knew if I didn't step out of this room soon, I'd rip the damn wall open.
"She's okay now."
Ronan's voice cut into my thoughts.
I turned. He was sitting exactly where he'd been before, watching her sleep like if he blinked, she'd disappear.
"She's not okay," I said, quieter now. "She's alive. That's not the same."
He didn't argue.
Silas had disappeared down the hall a few minutes earlier. Probably to lose his shit in private.
We all had our ways of dealing.
Mine was silence. Anger. Control.
But none of that worked now. Not with her lying there, skin yellow with malnourishment, a healing IV in her arm like a lifeline we almost didn't give her in time.
"She didn't scream when we found her," I said after a long pause. "She didn't cry. She just looked at us like we were the final nail in her coffin."
Ronan didn't move. "Wouldn't you?"
I ran a hand through my hair, biting down the frustration boiling in my throat.
I hated this.
I hated him. The uncle. The bastard who did this.
I hated the fact that I hadn't figured it out.
But most of all, I hated that we spent four years making it worse. Feeding into her fear. Covering it with cruelty disguised as strategy.
"We need to tell her," I said finally.
Ronan looked up. "Not yet."
"She deserves to know."
"She's not ready."
"She was ready to die," I snapped.
His jaw tightened, but he didn't fire back.
Good.
Because if he had, I don't know what I would've done.
I looked back at her one last time before turning to leave.
She didn't stir.
But her fingers twitched, just once.
And for some reason, that broke me more than anything else.