Phoebe's POV
Tell him. Tell him. Tell him.
A tiny voice kept whispering in my head, urging me to spill everything to Timothy—the real story, the hell I'd been living through.
But like always, my throat seized up. I couldn't get a single word out without my voice breaking. I despised myself whenever this happened.
It made me feel broken.
"Well?" Timothy waited, studying me intently. He caught how I was fighting to speak—my pupils dilating, my breathing turning ragged.
Timothy understood people. He'd commanded thousands of warriors, had to read them like books.
He'd marched into battle with them, so knowing the person whose life might depend on yours was essential. The people who'd stand beside you when everything went to hell.
"Easy now." Timothy shifted closer, settling next to me on the bed. His hand rubbed my back in slow circles, trying to steady me.
