The car didn't go to the penthouse. I recognized the route, the discreet entrance, the scent of the underground garage. The safe house. It wasn't my first time, but it felt like the first time I was truly seeing it—not as a strategic location, but as a shelter for my shattered nerves.
The world was a blur of muted colors and soft voices. Kaelen carried me inside, his grip unwavering even though I could feel the tense strain in his arm where the bullet had grazed him. His blood was a stark, drying smear on his undershirt.
A man and a woman in crisp medical uniforms stood waiting in the living area, a kit open on the table. Kaelen's private med team. On standby, as always.
"See to his arm first," I heard myself say, my voice hollow and distant, as if someone else were speaking through me.
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "Elara—"
"Please." The word was a fragile thing. "I can't… I just need a moment."
He reluctantly allowed the male medic to lead him to a chair to assess the wound. The female medic approached me, her expression carefully neutral. "Miss Sterling, let me take a look at your wrists and your face."
I flinched back, my arms wrapping around myself. The thought of a stranger's hands, even clinical, professional ones, on my skin made my stomach roil. "No. Don't touch me."
"Elara, you're bleeding," Kaelen said, his voice thick with a pain that had nothing to do with his arm.
The female medic reached out again, "Miss Sterling-"
"I said no!" The cry was too sharp, too loud. It echoed in the quiet room. I saw Kaelen flinch, and the shame was immediate, a hot flush that warred with the cold terror.
It was Flora, emerging from the kitchen with a basin of warm water and soft cloths, who broke the stalemate. Her kind, motherly face was a landscape of worry, but her eyes held no pity, only a deep, steady calm.
"Let me, dear," she said softly, her voice a balm. She waved the medics away with a gentle but firm nod. "You go on and take care of Mr. Vancourt. I've got her."
Kaelen held my gaze for a long moment, a silent question in his eyes. I saw him through my tear-filled eyes, and after a moment, gave a tiny, jerky nod. With Flora, it was different. Safe.
She led me to the master bedroom, her movements slow and predictable. She didn't speak as she worked, simply cleaning the cuts on my wrists and ankles with a tenderness that brought fresh tears to my eyes. She dabbed a cool cloth on my bruised cheek, her touch so light it was barely there. She helped me out of the torn, filthy dress and into a soft, clean robe.
"I need a shower," I whispered, the need to scrub the feeling of their hands from my skin becoming a physical compulsion.
"Of course, dear. I'll be right outside the door."
The hot water was a scalding punishment I craved. I stood under the spray, scrubbing my skin raw with a loofah until it was pink and stinging. But I could still feel it—the calloused grip on my hair, the cold flat of the knife, the tearing of the fabric. I scrubbed harder, my breath catching in ragged sobs. The steam filled my lungs, thick and suffocating. The walls of the shower seemed to close in, the sound of the water morphing into their ugly laughter.
My legs gave way. I could feel myself collapsing onto the tiled floor, the water beating down on me, but I couldn't hold myself up. Slowly, the world went dark. First at the edges, then, engulfing me. The silence was great, peaceful, comforting.
But the next thing I knew, I was back in the chair. The zip-ties cut deeper. The camera flashed. Tattoo-Arms leaned in, his breath hot on my neck. "No one's coming for you." His lips brushed my ears as he reached down...
A scream tore from my throat, ripping me from the memory and back into the harsh reality of the bathroom floor. I was shivering, the hot water having long run cold.
"Elara!" Kaelen's voice, frantic, came from the other side of the door, followed by a soft, worried murmur from Flora.
I couldn't speak. I could only curl into a tighter ball, trembling uncontrollably.
Somehow, Flora must have persuaded him to let her handle it. She came in, turned off the water, and wrapped me in a large, fluffy towel. She didn't ask questions. She just helped me into a nightgown and put me to bed, drawing the heavy curtains shut. The last thing I remembered was the soft click of the door as she left.
The darkness swallowed me again. This time, it was Cold-Eyes, his fingers tracing a path down my arm. I tried to pull away, but the binds held fast. The camera's red light pulsed, growing larger and larger until it was all I could see—a hellish, unblinking eye.
I woke up screaming.
The room was pitch black. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. I was drenched in a cold sweat, the echoes of the nightmare still clinging to me.
The bedroom door flew open, and Kaelen stood there, silhouetted by the hall light. "Elara!"
He was at the bedside in an instant, his hand reaching for me.
I recoiled.
It was pure, animal instinct. A violent, full-body flinch away from the sudden movement, from the touch I so desperately craved just seconds before.
His hand froze in mid-air. In the sliver of light from the door, I saw the shattering in his eyes. It was like watching a fortress crumble into dust. He slowly lowered his hand, his face pale and stricken.
The sight broke through my own terror. "Kaelen… I'm sorry… I didn't mean…"
"Don't," he whispered, the word ragged. "Don't ever apologize." He took a deliberate step back, giving me space, his hands clenched at his sides. "I just needed to know you were safe."
The physical distance between us was a fresh, new agony. I missed his warmth, his solidness. I drew my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. The sobs came again, quieter this time, wracked with guilt.
"The driver," I choked out, needing to focus on something, anything else. "Is he…?"
"Alive," Kaelen said, his voice low and steady, an anchor in my storm. "He's in the hospital. A severe concussion, some broken ribs. But he's stable. The moment he regained consciousness, he called Mark. That's how we found you so quickly. He's a good man."
A wave of relief so profound it left me weak washed over me. "Thank God."
We sat in silence for a long moment, the only sound my hiccupping breaths slowly calming.
"When Mark told me," Kaelen began, his gaze fixed on the far wall, not looking at me, as if confessing to the darkness. "He said the car had been attacked. That you were taken." He swallowed hard, the muscle in his jaw feathering. "I have never known fear like that. It was… absolute. It was like the floor of the world had fallen away."
He finally turned his head, and his eyes, full of a raw, terrifying love, met mine. "I would have torn the city apart with my bare hands to find you. I nearly did."
The raw conviction in his voice was a tangible force in the dark room. It gave me the strength to voice the certainty that had crystallized in the heart of my terror.
"It was Bella," I whispered, the name a poison on my tongue. "She called them. She gave the orders." I saw her cold, smiling face in my mind. "She told them to... to make sure you wouldn't want me anymore."
"I know," he said finally, his voice flat, dangerously calm.
My heart stumbled. "You—"
"Too many coincidences," he continued. "Everything felt like it was perfectly timed. Her livestream, the attack, everything. She begged me not to leave her, when Mark got the call from the driver. She threatened to kill herself again. That's when I was sure it was her."
He drew a slow breath, but it did nothing to ease the tension in his shoulders. "At first... I left. Mark went to the docks, I went to the warehouse that Smith owned." His gaze flicked to me, dark and furious. "Then I realized that would have been too easy. Too deliberate. Those were the obvious places to look, and Bella would know that too."
My throat tightened. "So you went back."
"I went back," he said, his voice now low and cold. "She was still in her apartment, pretending to cry into her phone. She didn't even hear me come in."
He stopped then, jaw working as if chewing on words too bitter to swallow.
"I made her talk. She broke faster than I thought she would. Said she didn't expect me to stop playing the part she knew—didn't expect me to stop protecting her."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice dropping into a hoarse whisper. "When she told me where they took you… I swear, Elara, I didn't breathe until I saw you again."
Something inside me cracked then—something small and fragile that had been holding me together by sheer will. I reached out, hesitantly, my hand trembling as I placed it over his.
His fingers didn't move at first, as if he didn't trust himself to touch me. Then, slowly, they turned, enclosing mine. His palm was rough, his arm bandaged, still faintly shaking.
I didn't know if I was trembling because of the cold, or because of him.
"Do you.. Should I call Charles?" He asked, carefully.
My father's warm cheery face flashed through my head. My heart ached. I needed him here. But the fleeting image of his face was quickly replaced by a funeral. His funeral, in my past life. His heart attack.
"No, Kaelen. I don't want him to see me this way." I trembled, just so slightly.
"You'll be safe here. You can stay as long as you like. I'll make sure that she'll pay for this," he murmured. Not a threat. A vow.
I closed my eyes, the weight of his promise sinking deep into my chest. "No," I whispered, barely audible. "No more blood, Kaelen. I can't stand the sight of you hurt."
His silence said everything.
The night held its breath between us. The storm outside began again, a low rumble rolling across the city.
And in the flickering half-light, I realized—nothing would ever go back to the way it was. Not between us. Not in this war we had been forced into.