The light was different now. Not the harsh yellow of the lamp that had burned beside her bed, but a pale gray-blue that came through the curtains like water seeping under a door. Morning, she thought. Or close to it. The house was quiet in a way she didn't trust.
She lay still for a long moment, her body slowly waking into its own map of pain. Ribs. Left side, where the guard's boot had caught her. Ankle, a dull throb that pulsed with her heartbeat. The long stripes across her back that pulled tight when she breathed too deep. She catalogued them the way she'd been taught—location, severity, what she could move and what she couldn't—and then she opened her eyes.
The ceiling was white. Not the stained concrete of the cell, but smooth plaster with a faint texture like orange peel. She turned her head on the pillow, and the pillow was soft, absurdly soft, and the sheet beneath her cheek smelled of something clean and faintly floral. She hated how much she liked it.
The room came into focus slowly. A chair by the window with clothes folded on it—her clothes, she realized, the same ones from last night, washed and pressed. A glass of water on the nightstand, condensation beading on the sides. A small clock. A painting on the wall, something with boats and a harbor, too cheerful to look at for long.
And the door.
The door was ajar.
She pushed herself up on her elbows, and the ache in her ribs made her gasp, a sharp sound that she swallowed before it could finish leaving her throat. But the door. The door was ajar, a sliver of hallway light cutting through the gap, and the lock that had clicked shut last night was no longer holding it closed.
She stared at that sliver of light and tried to understand what it meant. They'd left it open. After everything—the chains, the cuffs, the cell—they'd left her door open like she was a guest, like she could walk out whenever she wanted.
She tested the thought. Walked to the door. Pushed it open. Walked down the hall and out of the house and across the gravel and through the gate and back to the road that led to the city, back to the place she'd come from, back to—
She stopped the thought there. Her fingers found the bandage on her forearm, clean and white, the edges taped down with a precision she recognized from the man with the glasses. Emerson. The doctor. The one who'd touched her like she was made of glass and spoken to her like she was a person instead of a target.
She lay back down, slowly, carefully, and pulled the quilt up to her chin. The door was still ajar. The glass of water was still beading. The clock on the nightstand ticked, a sound she hadn't noticed until now, and she counted the seconds because counting was something to do, something that kept her hands still and her breath even.
Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three.
She was still counting when she heard the footsteps.
They came down the hallway, slow and unhurried, a soft tread that didn't sound like the guards. She tensed, her body going small and still under the quilt, her eyes fixed on the door, watching the sliver of light for a shadow to cross it.
The footsteps stopped.
The door pushed open, slow, the wood swinging on silent hinges, and the man who filled the frame was not the Don. It was the doctor. Emerson. He stood there a moment, his silhouette blocking the hallway light, his hands at his sides, and she saw him take her in—the small shape of her under the quilt, the way she'd pressed herself against the headboard, the way her fingers had found the edge of the bandage on her arm and were gripping it like a lifeline.
His face softened. Something in his shoulders dropped, a tension she hadn't seen him carrying until it was gone.
"Hey honey," he said. "How are you feeling?"
She didn't answer right away. Her fingers stayed wrapped around the edge of the bandage, and she watched him the way she watched everything—looking for the tell, the twitch that meant a blow was coming. But Emerson just stood there in the doorway, his hands empty and visible, his weight settled back on his heels like he had all the time in the world.
"I've been better," she said finally. Her voice came out scratchy, unused. She'd barely spoken since the cell, and the words felt foreign in her mouth.
He nodded, slow, like he'd expected exactly that answer. "That's fair. You've had a rough couple of days." He took a step into the room, not toward her, just into the space, giving her time to track the movement and decide it wasn't a threat. "Can I come closer? I'd like to check your bandages, make sure everything's holding."
She considered the question. It was a question, she realized—he was actually asking, waiting for her to say yes or no, and that was so strange it almost made her laugh. Master never asked. Master told her to hold still and she held still, and if she didn't hold still fast enough, there were consequences she could still feel in the stripes across her back.
"Okay," she said. The word came out smaller than she meant it to.
Emerson crossed the room with the same unhurried tread, and when he reached the chair by the window he lowered himself into it, bringing his eyes level with hers. Up close she could see the faint shadows under his own eyes, the slight roughness of a jaw that hadn't seen a razor yet this morning. He'd been up too. Maybe all night.
"I need to examine you properly," he said. "Properly meaning a full workup—your ribs, your ankle, the wounds on your back. I did what I could last night, but I want to do it right. Clean everything out, re-bandage, make sure nothing's gotten infected."
She felt her body go still at the word examine. Her training kicked in, the part of her that knew what happened when someone wanted to look at her body, touch her body, have access to her body. Her hand moved from the bandage to the quilt, gripping the edge of it like a shield.
Emerson saw it. She watched him see it, the way his eyes tracked the movement of her hand, the way his expression didn't change but something behind it did. "It's not optional, honey. I'm sorry. Those wounds need proper care, and if we don't do it now, they'll get worse. You don't want that, and I don't want that."
She hated the word honey. She hated how soft it was, how it made something in her chest ache in a way she didn't have a name for. Master called her many things, and none of them were honey.
"But," Emerson said, and he leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping, "you get a choice in how we do this. You can walk with me to the med wing, holding my hand if you want, and we'll take it slow. Or"—he paused, and she saw something flicker in his dark eyes, something careful and deliberate—"I can have Marco and Dante carry you there. They're gentle, I promise you that. But I'd rather you walk."
She understood what he was doing. He was giving her a choice between two things she didn't want, so she'd pick the one that was less bad. It was a trick, a manipulation, the kind of thing Master did when he wanted her to think she had control when she didn't.
But the choice was real. She could feel it, the weight of it, the way Emerson's hands stayed open and empty in his lap, the way he wasn't moving toward her, the way he was waiting.
The thought of Marco and Dante carrying her made her skin crawl. She remembered the guards from the cell, the gentleness of their hands, but she also remembered being carried before. Being held down. Being moved like cargo because she wasn't fast enough to walk on her own.
She looked at Emerson. He was still waiting, patient, his eyes steady on hers. There was no impatience in his face, no threat underneath the offer. Just a man who'd promised to treat her like a person and was keeping his word.
Her arms moved before she'd fully decided to lift them. She stretched them toward him, small and thin, the bandage on her forearm catching the pale morning light, and she watched his face change as he understood what she was asking. Something cracked open in his expression, something raw and almost painful to look at, and then he was moving, rising from the chair and crossing the room in two steps.
He gathered her up like she was made of glass. One arm under her knees, one behind her back, lifting her off the mattress with a gentleness that made her breath catch. She was small in his arms, smaller than she'd realized, her ribs aching where they pressed against his chest, her ankle dangling uselessly. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on.
"I've got you," he said, and his voice was rough, like he was holding something back. "I've got you, honey. You're okay."
She didn't believe him. But she buried her face against his shoulder anyway, because his shirt smelled like antiseptic and something warm underneath it, and because holding on was easier than letting go.
He carried her through the doorway, and she watched the room she'd slept in shrink behind them—the chair by the window, the glass of water, the quilt she'd pulled up to her chin. She'd been in that room less than a day, but already it felt like somewhere she'd left something behind, something she couldn't name and didn't know how to go back for.
The hallway was wider than she'd expected, lined with dark wood and paintings she didn't let herself look at. Emerson's steps were even, unhurried, his arms steady around her. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the slow rhythm of his breathing, and she found herself matching it without meaning to. In. Out. In. Out. The way she'd been taught to calm herself before a fight, except this wasn't a fight, and she didn't know what it was.
"You're very light," Emerson said, and there was something careful in his voice, like he was testing whether she wanted to talk. "When's the last time you ate a real meal?"
She thought about it. The bread Tomasso had given her in the cell, hard and dry, gone in three bites. Before that, scraps from Master's table when he remembered to leave them. Before that—she couldn't remember. Days blurred together when you were counting them by how much pain you were in.
"I don't remember," she said, and the words came out smaller than she wanted them to.
Emerson's arms tightened around her, just slightly, a pressure that wasn't painful but felt like something. "We'll fix that," he said. "I'll have the kitchen make you whatever you want. Anything at all. You just have to tell me what sounds good."
She didn't know what to say to that. Food wasn't something she chose. Food was something that appeared or didn't, that she ate fast before it could be taken away. The idea of asking for something specific, of having a preference, felt like a language she'd never learned.
The hallway turned, and she caught a glimpse of a staircase at the far end, wide and carpeted, the kind that belonged in a house where people lived and grew up and made memories she didn't have words for. She looked away from it, down at Emerson's shoulder, at the fabric of his shirt where her fingers were curled into it.
"Is it far?" she asked. "The med wing." She didn't want to sound scared. She wasn't scared. She was just—trying to map the territory, to know where she was being taken and how long it would take to get back.
"Not far," Emerson said. "Down this hall, through the kitchen, and it's on the left. I've got my own suite there, where I see patients who need privacy. You'll be comfortable." He paused, and she felt his voice drop slightly, a note in it she hadn't heard before. "You'll be safe."
She wanted to believe him. That was the strangest part. She wanted to believe him so badly it made her chest ache, the same ache she'd felt when he'd called her honey, the ache she didn't have a name for. But wanting something didn't make it true. Master had taught her that. Wanting was the first thing they'd beaten out of her, and she'd learned the lesson so well she'd forgotten she'd ever had wants at all.
Through a doorway, and the light changed—brighter, yellow, the color of a kitchen in the early morning. She caught a glimpse of counters and a large table, a window over the sink showing a stretch of green lawn, and then they were past it, into another hallway, and Emerson was pushing open a door with his shoulder.
The room they entered was smaller than the bedroom, but it smelled like the thing she'd been smelling on his shirt—antiseptic, clean, clinical. There was an examination table in the center, padded and covered with white paper, and cabinets along the walls, and a desk with a computer and a lamp. A medical suite. His private medical suite, he'd said. She'd been in places like this before, but never like this, never with someone carrying her like she was precious instead of a problem to be solved.
Emerson set her down on the examination table, slow and careful, like she might break if he moved too fast. The paper crinkled under her, and she felt the coolness of the room against her skin, the way her body tensed without her permission. She kept her arms around his neck for a moment longer than she needed to, and then she let go, her hands falling to her lap, her fingers finding the edge of the bandage on her forearm again.
"I'm going to get some things ready," Emerson said, moving to the cabinets. "It'll take me a minute. You just sit there and breathe, okay? Tell me if anything hurts."
She watched him work. His hands moved with a precision she recognized from the cell, from the way he'd cleaned her wounds and wrapped her ribs, but there was something else in the way he moved now—a carefulness, a deliberateness, like he was doing something more than just gathering supplies. He was giving her time. Time to look around, to adjust, to decide he wasn't a threat.
She looked down at her hands. Small, thin, the knuckles scraped from the fight in the courtyard. There was a scar on her right palm, a thin white line she didn't remember getting—or maybe she did, maybe it was from the time Master had made her hold a knife for too long, the blade biting into her skin until blood ran down her wrist. She couldn't remember. There were so many scars, so many marks, that she'd stopped keeping track of where they came from.
The antiseptic smell was stronger here, sharper. It made her think of the med wing, of the room she was in, of what was about to happen. She didn't want to be here. She wanted to be back in the bedroom, under the quilt, where the door was ajar and she could pretend she had a choice.
But Emerson was still moving, still gathering, still giving her time. And she was still sitting on the table, her hands in her lap, her breathing matching his, waiting for him to turn around.
She heard him set something down on the counter behind her—a soft clink of metal, the rustle of packaging. The sounds were careful, measured, like he was narrating his movements so she wouldn't be surprised. She appreciated that. She hated being surprised.
The paper crinkled under her thighs again as she shifted, and the movement sent a sharp spike through her ribs. She winced, her hand flying to her side before she could stop it, and the motion made her feel exposed in a way she couldn't explain. The room was too bright. The table was too hard. The white paper under her was too clean, too clinical, too much like the places Master had taken her when she'd been too broken to fix herself.
She didn't want to be here.
The thought came sharp and sudden, and before she could talk herself out of it, she was moving—sliding off the edge of the table, her bare feet hitting the cold tile with a soft slap. Her ankle buckled, a white-hot lance of pain shooting up her leg, and she grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself, her knuckles going white on the metal frame.
"Whoa." Emerson's voice was calm, unhurried, but he was already moving, crossing the room in three quick strides. His hands found her waist, gentle but firm, and he lifted her like she weighed nothing, setting her back on the table with a care that made her chest ache. "Where do you think you're going?"
She didn't answer. She couldn't. Her throat was tight, her hands shaking, and she stared at the floor, at the clean white tile, at the way her bare toes curled against the cold. She felt stupid. She felt small. She felt like a child, and she hated it, hated the way her body was betraying her, the way her eyes were burning with something she refused to let fall.
Emerson didn't move away. He stayed close, his hands still hovering near her shoulders, and when she finally looked up, she saw something on his face she hadn't expected. His lips were twitching. Not mocking, not cruel—just a small, almost involuntary curl at the corner of his mouth, like he was trying not to smile.
"What?" she said, and the word came out sharper than she meant it to.
He shook his head, and the smile faded, but something warm stayed in his eyes. "Nothing. Just—you remind me of something." He paused, and she watched him decide whether to say it. "When Sorin was little, he used to try to run out of the doctor's office every time he had to get a shot. Tomasso would have to sit on him."
She didn't know what to do with that. She didn't know these people, these brothers, these names that kept appearing like pieces of a puzzle she hadn't asked to solve. She stared at him, and he stared back, and somewhere in the silence she felt the sharp edge of her panic dull, just slightly.
"I don't like needles," she said, and the words came out small and flat, like she was admitting a weakness she'd been trained to hide.
Emerson's expression softened. He didn't laugh, didn't dismiss it, didn't tell her it was silly or childish or something to be ashamed of. He just nodded, slow, like he understood. "That's fair. Most people don't. I'm a doctor, and even I don't love them." He crouched down, bringing his eyes level with hers, and she felt the familiar tension in her shoulders ease, just a fraction. "Can I ask what you're nervous about, honey? Is it the pain, or—"
"I don't like being exposed," she said, and the words came out before she could stop them. She felt her face heat, a flush creeping up her neck, and she looked away, at the cabinets, at the desk, anywhere but at him. "I don't like—people looking at me. Touching me. I don't like feeling like I can't—" She stopped. Swallowed. "I don't like feeling trapped."
The silence stretched between them, long and full. She could feel him looking at her, could feel the weight of his attention, but it wasn't the kind of attention she was used to. It wasn't hungry or impatient or cruel. It was just—present. Waiting.
"Okay," he said finally. "Okay. That makes sense. And I'm sorry—I should have thought about that before I brought you here." He straightened, and she watched him move to the desk, picking up his phone. "Would it help if someone else was here? One of my brothers? I could call Leo—he's the one who talked to you last night. Or I could call Sorin, he's good at making people laugh."
She shrugged. The movement was small, almost involuntary, but she felt it betray her—the way her shoulders lifted and fell, the way her eyes flicked toward the door and then away.
Emerson saw it. She watched him see it, the way his gaze followed hers, the way something in his face shifted. "You'd like that," he said, and it wasn't a question. "You'd like someone here with you."
She didn't answer. She couldn't. The words were stuck in her throat, caught between the part of her that had been trained to need no one and the part of her that was so tired, so desperately tired, of being alone.
Emerson didn't push. He just looked at her for a long moment, and then he picked up his phone and typed something, quick and efficient. "I'm texting Leo," he said. "He'll be here in a minute."
She nodded, a small jerk of her chin, and then she felt his hand on her back—not on the wounds, not on the bandages, but on the space between her shoulder blades, where her spine curved and the skin was unbroken. He traced a small circle there, light and slow, and the touch was so unexpected, so gentle, that she felt her breath catch.
"You're okay," he said, and his voice was low, meant only for her. "You're okay, honey. We're going to take this slow."
The circle traced again, a small, soothing motion, and she felt something in her chest loosen, just a little. She didn't know why it helped. She didn't know why the touch of a stranger's hand on her back could make her feel less like she was drowning. But it did. And she hated how much she needed it.
She was still counting the circles—one, two, three—when she heard the footsteps in the hallway. Heavier than Emerson's, a solid tread that she recognized from the night before. The door opened, and Leonardo Conti stepped into the room.
He filled the doorway the way he filled every room, his broad shoulders straining the seams of his suit jacket, his gray eyes sweeping the space before landing on her. She saw him take her in—the small shape of her on the table, the way she'd pressed herself back against the paper, the way Emerson's hand was still resting on her back—and something in his face softened.
"Hey, little one," he said, and his voice was a low rumble, gentler than she'd expected. "Emerson said you might want some company."
She didn't know what to say. She looked at him, at the immaculate suit and the scarred knuckles and the gray eyes that held a weight she didn't understand, and she felt the words stick in her throat again.
Leonardo didn't push. He crossed the room slowly, giving her time to track his movement, and when he reached the chair by the wall, he didn't sit. He just stood there, his hands at his sides, his eyes on hers.
"I'm going to need to do a full exam," Emerson said, his voice careful, measured. "That means looking at her ribs, her ankle, her back. It means she's going to be uncovered for a while, and I know that's hard for her." He paused, and she felt his hand still on her back. "I thought maybe it would be easier if she wasn't alone."
Leonardo nodded, slow. "That's a good idea." He looked at her, and something shifted in his expression—a question, an offer, a hope he didn't know how to voice. "Would it help if you sat with me? During the exam, I mean. You could sit in my lap, if you wanted. You wouldn't have to be on the table."
The offer hung in the air between them, heavy and strange. She stared at him, trying to understand it. She'd never been offered a lap before. She'd never been offered comfort before, not like this, not without a price attached.
She didn't answer. She couldn't. But her body moved before her mind caught up, sliding off the table again—this time slower, more careful—and she took a step toward him. Her ankle buckled, and she stumbled, and Leonardo caught her, his hands gentle on her arms.
"I've got you," he said, and his voice was rough, like he was holding something back. "I've got you, little one."
He lowered himself into the chair, and she climbed into his lap without being asked, curling into the warmth of his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arms came around her, careful and steady, and she felt the solid weight of him against her back, the slow rhythm of his breathing, the way his hand came up to rest on her hair.
She didn't know why she'd done it. She didn't know why she trusted him—this stranger, this man who'd locked her in a cell and called her sister and promised her safety she didn't believe in. But she was tired. So tired. And his lap was warm, and his arms were steady, and for the first time since she'd woken up, she felt like she could breathe.
She buried her face against his chest, against the crisp fabric of his shirt, and she felt his hand move in slow circles on her back, the same way Emerson's had. She counted them. One. Two. Three.
"Okay," Emerson said, and his voice was soft, almost apologetic. "I'm going to start with her back. I need to check the wounds, make sure they're healing clean."
Leonardo's arms tightened around her, just slightly. "Is that okay, little one? Emerson's going to look at your back now."
She nodded against his chest, a small movement, and she felt him adjust his grip, shifting her so her back was angled toward the doctor. The paper crinkled somewhere behind her, and she heard Emerson moving, the soft click of instruments being set out.
And then she saw it. Out of the corner of her eye, on the counter beside the exam table—a tray. Covered in a clean white cloth, but she knew what was underneath. She'd seen trays like that before, in Master's house, in the rooms where she'd been patched up and stitched up and told to be still.
Needles.
Her body went rigid. Her hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of Leonardo's shirt, and she felt him tense beneath her, felt his hand pause on her back.
"Hey," he said, soft. "Hey, what's wrong?"
She didn't answer. She couldn't. Her eyes were fixed on the tray, on the white cloth, on the thin shapes beneath it that she knew were syringes, and she felt her heart start to pound, a fast, frantic rhythm that made her ribs ache.
Emerson followed her gaze. He saw the tray, and something in his face shifted—understanding, sympathy, a gentleness that made her chest hurt. "Those are for later," he said, his voice low and even. "I need to give you some vaccines, honey. Things you should have had when you were younger, to keep you healthy. But we can do that first, if you want—get it over with, so you don't have to worry about it."
She shook her head. The movement was small, desperate, and she felt Leonardo's arms tighten around her, pulling her closer.
"I know," Emerson said, and he moved toward her, slow, his hands open and visible. "I know you don't like them. I know. But it's better to get them out of the way, so you can relax for the rest of the exam. And I'll be quick—I promise."
She felt the tears prick at her eyes, hot and humiliating. She didn't cry. She never cried. But she was so tired, and her ribs hurt, and her ankle hurt, and there were needles on the counter, and she was sitting in the lap of a man who smelled like expensive cologne and old leather, and she didn't know what was happening to her.
She shrank into Leonardo, pressing herself against his chest, and his arms came around her fully, wrapping her in a cocoon of warmth and safety. His hand came up to the back of her head, cradling it, and he pressed his lips to her hair.
"Shh," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against her skull. "Shh, little one. I've got you. It's okay."
She felt his hand move down her back, tracing slow circles over the bandages, and she realized he was being careful, so careful, avoiding the wounds even as he soothed her. She felt his chest rise and fall beneath her, and she matched her breathing to his, in and out, in and out, the way she'd been taught to calm herself before a fight.
But this wasn't a fight. This was something else entirely.
"Okay," she heard herself say, and the word was barely a whisper, muffled against Leonardo's shirt. "Okay."
She felt Emerson's hand on her arm, gentle, turning it so the inside of her elbow was exposed. She felt the cool swab of alcohol, the antiseptic smell sharp in her nostrils. She felt Leonardo's arms tighten around her, his hand still moving on her back, and she heard his voice, low and steady, a constant murmur against her hair.
"You're so brave, little one. You're so brave. It's going to be over in a second."
She felt the needle slide in—a sharp, cold sting that made her flinch, her whole body tensing against the intrusion. She felt Leonardo's hand on her head, holding her steady, and she heard him whisper something she didn't catch, something that sounded like a prayer.
The sting faded almost as quickly as it came, leaving behind a dull ache that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. She kept her eyes fixed on Leonardo's shirt, on the precise line of a button, and counted her breaths the way she'd been taught. In. Hold. Out. The needle withdrew, and she heard Emerson's quiet voice—"All done, honey, that's the worst one"—but she didn't look up. She couldn't. Her hand was still fisted in Leonardo's shirt, and she could feel the fabric growing damp under her palm, though she didn't know when she'd started sweating.
Leonardo's hand moved from her head to her shoulder, a warm, grounding weight. "You did so well," he murmured, and she felt the rumble of his voice through his chest, through the shirt pressed against her cheek. "That's it. That's all of it."
But she knew better. She'd seen the tray. She'd counted the shapes beneath the cloth, the thin outlines of three syringes, and Emerson had only used one. There were more coming. The thought settled in her stomach like a stone, cold and heavy.
She felt Emerson move, heard the soft clink of metal on metal as he set the used syringe aside. "Two more," he said, and his voice was gentle, apologetic. "But they're smaller than the first one. Quicker. You won't even feel them."
She didn't answer. She pressed her face harder against Leonardo's chest, as if she could disappear into him, and she felt his arms tighten around her, pulling her closer.
"Can I give her a minute?" Leonardo asked, and his voice was different now—not softer, but careful, the way he might speak to a spooked horse. "Just a minute to breathe."
Emerson nodded. "Take your time." She heard him step back, heard the creak of a stool as he sat down, giving her space. The room went quiet, save for the hum of the lights and the steady rhythm of Leonardo's heart beneath her ear.
She counted the beats. One. Two. Three. Four. It was a different rhythm than she was used to—slower, steadier than the frantic pulse that had kept her alive in Master's house. She didn't know what to do with a steady rhythm. She didn't trust it.
"You know," Leonardo said, his voice low, almost conspiratorial, "when Sorin was your age, he used to climb onto the roof to avoid getting his shots. Tomasso had to bribe him down with ice cream."
She felt her lips twitch, a small, involuntary movement against his shirt. She didn't want to smile. She didn't want to feel anything but the cold, hard edge of her fear. But the image was so strange—a boy her age, climbing onto a roof to escape a needle—that she couldn't help it.
"Did he fall?" she asked, and her voice came out muffled, small.
"Every time," Leonardo said, and she heard the smile in his voice. "Every single time. He's got a scar on his elbow to prove it."
She felt something loosen in her chest, just a fraction. She lifted her head, just enough to look at him, and she saw that he was smiling—a real smile, not the careful, measured expression he'd worn before. It changed his face, made him look younger, less like a man who carried the weight of a crown and more like a brother telling a story.
"He's an idiot," she said, and the words came out before she could stop them.
Leonardo laughed, a low, warm sound that rumbled through his chest. "He is. He absolutely is. But he's our idiot."
She didn't know what to say to that. She didn't know how to respond to the way he said "our," like she was already part of it, like she already belonged. She looked away, at the wall, at the cabinets, at the tray on the counter with its remaining syringes.
The fear was still there, a cold knot in her stomach. But it was smaller now, less sharp. She could breathe around it.
"Okay," she said, and the word was quiet, but it was steady. "I'm ready."
She felt Leonardo's hand on her head, a brief, gentle pressure, and then Emerson was there again, his hands open and visible, his movements slow. "This one's in your arm," he said. "Just like the last one. You'll feel a pinch, and then it's done."
She nodded, and she kept her eyes on Leonardo's face as Emerson swabbed her arm with alcohol. The antiseptic smell was sharp, familiar, and she felt her muscles tense despite herself.
"Look at me," Leonardo said, and his voice was low, steady. "Just look at me, little one. Don't look at anything else."
She did. She looked at his gray eyes, at the lines around them that spoke of sleepless nights and heavy decisions, at the way his gaze held hers like it was the most important thing in the world. She felt the needle slide in—a quick, sharp sting—and she flinched, but she didn't look away.
"That's it," Leonardo said. "That's it. You're doing so well."
She kept her eyes on his, on the gray of them, on the way they held steady even as her own vision blurred at the edges. The sting in her arm faded to a dull throb, and she heard Emerson's quiet voice—"All done, sweetheart, that's the last one"—but the words felt far away, like they were coming through water. She didn't move. She couldn't. Her hand was still fisted in Leonardo's shirt, and she could feel the damp of her own sweat against the fabric, the slow, shaking rhythm of her breath.
Leonardo's thumb traced a slow arc across her shoulder, a small, grounding motion. "You did it," he said, and his voice was warm, rough at the edges. "You did it, little one. It's over now."
She wanted to believe him. She wanted to feel the relief that his words promised, the loosening of the knot in her chest. But her body didn't know how to let go. It had been wound too tight for too long, and even now, with the needles set aside and Emerson's hands moving away, she could feel the fear still coiled in her stomach, waiting.
She pressed her face harder against his shirt, breathing him in—cologne and leather and something else, something clean and warm that she couldn't name. She felt his hand move to her hair, stroking it back from her face, and she heard him murmur something low, something she didn't catch, but the sound of it was enough. It was steady. It was safe.
"You want to take a minute before we look at your back?" Emerson asked, and his voice was gentle, giving her room. "We can wait as long as you need."
She shook her head against Leonardo's chest. She didn't want to wait. She wanted to get it over with, to have it done, to stop feeling like she was bracing for the next blow. "No," she said, and her voice came out muffled, small. "Just—just do it."
Emerson nodded, and she heard him move, heard the soft click of instruments being set out on the tray. "Okay. I'm going to need to see your back, honey. Can you turn around for me?"
She felt Leonardo's arms shift around her, guiding her, turning her so her back was angled toward the doctor. The movement pulled at her ribs, and she winced, a sharp inhale hissing through her teeth. She felt Leonardo's hand on her shoulder, steadying her, and she heard him speak, his voice a low rumble against her ear. "You're okay. I've got you."
The paper on the exam table crinkled as Emerson moved closer, and she felt his hands on the hem of the borrowed shirt she was wearing—the soft cotton that smelled like someone else's laundry detergent. He paused, his fingers resting lightly on the fabric. "I'm going to lift this now," he said. "Just to see your back. You're covered everywhere else, okay?"
She nodded, a small jerk of her chin, and she felt the shirt lift, felt the cool air hit her skin. She felt the weight of his gaze on the scars, on the bandages, on the map of old wounds that crisscrossed her back, and she felt the familiar shame rise in her chest, hot and thick. She wanted to cover herself. She wanted to run. But she was in Leonardo's lap, and his arms were around her, and she couldn't move even if she wanted to.
"Okay," Emerson said, and his voice was careful, clinical. "The wounds are healing well. The bandages are clean. I'm going to change them, and then we'll look at your ribs and your ankle."
She felt his hands on the tape, peeling it back slow, and she felt the sting of it pulling at her skin, the raw ache of the wounds beneath. She gritted her teeth, counting the seconds, feeling Leonardo's hand on her head, stroking her hair in a rhythm that matched her breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
"You're doing so well," Leonardo murmured, and she felt the vibration of his voice through his chest, through the shirt pressed against her cheek. "So well, little one."
She didn't feel like she was doing well. She felt like she was falling apart, piece by piece, and these men were catching the pieces before they hit the ground. She didn't know what to do with that. She didn't know how to be held. She didn't know how to be soft.
Emerson's hands were gentle, so gentle, as he cleaned the wounds and applied fresh bandages. She felt the cool of the antiseptic, the careful pressure of his fingers, and she felt something loosen in her chest, just a fraction. He was taking care of her. He was being careful with her. And she didn't know why, but she felt the tears prick at her eyes again, hot and unwanted.
"Almost done," Emerson said, and his voice was soft. "Just a few more minutes, and then we'll be done with the back."
She nodded, and she felt Leonardo's arms tighten around her, pulling her closer. She felt his lips press to her hair, a soft, fleeting touch, and she heard him whisper something she didn't catch, something that sounded like a promise.
The minutes passed slow, measured by the rhythm of his heart beneath her ear, by the careful movements of Emerson's hands on her back. She felt the last bandage go on, felt the tape smooth against her skin, and she heard Emerson step back, his voice warm with something that might have been approval. "That's the back. You did great, honey. Now let's take a look at those ribs."
She felt Leonardo shift, turning her again, and she kept her face pressed against his chest, her eyes closed. She didn't want to see the tray, didn't want to see the clean white cloth or the thin shapes beneath it. She just wanted to stay here, in the warmth of his lap, where the world was quiet and steady and nothing hurt.
"I'm going to press on your ribs," Emerson said. "Tell me if anything hurts too much."
She felt his hands on her side, gentle but firm, and she felt the ache of the broken bones, the sharp spike of pain when he pressed on the worst one. She flinched, a small sound escaping her throat, and she felt Leonardo's hand on her head, soothing, grounding.
"That's the one," Emerson said, and he moved his hands away. "It's healing, but it's going to hurt for a while. You need to take it easy—no running, no fighting, no climbing any roofs."
She felt her lips twitch at that, a small, involuntary movement, and she heard Leonardo laugh, a low, warm sound. "You hear that? No climbing roofs."
"I wasn't planning on it," she said, and her voice came out muffled, but there was a hint of something in it, something that might have been almost-wry.
Leonardo's hand moved to her shoulder, squeezing gently. "Good. Let's keep it that way."
Emerson moved to her ankle, his hands careful as he unwrapped the bandage. She felt the cool air on her skin, the ache of the joint, and she watched from the corner of her eye as he examined it, his brow furrowed in concentration. "The swelling's gone down," he said. "It's healing well. You're going to need to stay off it for a few more days, but you should be able to walk on it soon."
She nodded, and she felt the tension in her shoulders ease, just a fraction. She didn't like being broken. She didn't like being weak. But she was tired of fighting, tired of bracing, tired of expecting the blow that never came.
"Okay," Emerson said, and he stepped back, his hands dropping to his sides. "That's the exam. You're healing well, all things considered. I'm going to leave you two alone for a minute—I need to update your file."
She heard him move away, heard the soft click of the door, and then it was just her and Leonardo in the quiet room. She felt his hand on her hair, stroking it slow, and she heard his voice, low and gentle. "You did so well, little one. I'm proud of you."
She didn't know what to do with that. She didn't know what to do with the words, with the warmth in his voice, with the way he said them like she was something precious, something worth protecting. She felt the tears prick at her eyes again, and she pressed her face harder against his chest, hiding from them.
"Hey," he said, soft. "Hey, it's okay. You're safe. You're safe now."
She didn't answer. She couldn't. She just lay there, in the warmth of his lap, and let herself be held. And for the first time in as long as she could remember, she didn't feel like she was waiting for the next blow. She felt like she might, just maybe, be allowed to rest.
The tears came before she could stop them. Not the quiet, controlled weeping she'd learned to swallow down in Master's house—but real tears, hot and fast, spilling over her cheeks and soaking into Leonardo's shirt before she even understood what was happening. A sound escaped her, something between a gasp and a sob, and she felt her whole body shake with it, her small frame trembling against his chest like a leaf in a storm.
Leonardo's arms tightened around her, pulling her closer, and she felt his hand come up to cradle the back of her head, pressing her face into the warmth of his shoulder. "It's okay," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against her skull. "Let it out, little one. I've got you."
She didn't know how to let it out. She'd never been allowed to cry. Crying was weakness, Master had taught her that with his belt and his fists and his cold, flat voice that made her feel like nothing. Crying meant you couldn't handle the pain, and if you couldn't handle the pain, you were useless, and if you were useless—
But she couldn't stop. The tears kept coming, great heaving sobs that tore through her chest and made her ribs ache, and she clung to Leonardo's shirt like he was the only thing keeping her from drowning. She felt him rock her, slow and steady, a gentle rhythm like the sway of a boat on calm water, and she heard him humming something low and tuneless, a sound that wasn't quite a song but was somehow better.
"I'm scared," she heard herself say, and the words came out broken, hiccupped between sobs. "I'm scared and I'm lonely and I don't—I don't want to make you mad—"
"Shh," Leonardo said, and she felt his lips press to her forehead, soft and warm. "You're not going to make me mad, little one. You're not going to make any of us mad. You're safe here."
"But I—" She choked on the words, her throat tight, and she felt his hand move to her back, tracing slow circles over the bandages. "I failed. I failed the mission for Master and now he's going to be so angry and I'm—I'm stupid, I'm useless, I couldn't even—"
Leonardo's arms tightened around her, and she felt something shift in his chest, a tension that hadn't been there before. But his voice stayed gentle, steady. "You're not stupid. You're not useless. Who told you that?"
"Master," she said, and the word came out small and flat, like she was reciting a lesson she'd learned too many times. "He said I was only good for one thing and if I couldn't do that thing I was nothing. He said I was a tool and tools that break get thrown away."
She felt Leonardo go still beneath her, felt the breath leave his chest in a slow, controlled exhale. But he didn't pull away. He held her tighter, his hand moving to her hair, stroking it back from her face. "That's not true," he said, and his voice was rough, like he was holding something back. "None of that is true. You're a little girl. You're not a tool. You're not a weapon. You're—" He stopped, and she felt him swallow. "You're my sister. And you're safe now. No one is going to throw you away."
She wanted to believe him. She wanted to so badly it made her chest ache. But the words felt too big, too strange, like a language she'd never learned. She pressed her face harder against his shirt, breathing in the smell of him—cologne and leather and something clean and warm—and she let the sobs shake through her, let them take her apart piece by piece, because she was too tired to hold them back anymore.
Leonardo rocked her, slow and steady, his hand never stopping its gentle rhythm on her back. She felt him press another kiss to her forehead, then another, and she felt the warmth of it seep into her skin, a small, strange comfort she didn't know how to name.
"I'm sorry," she hiccupped, her voice muffled against his shirt. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—"
"Don't apologize," Leonardo said, and his voice was firm but gentle. "You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing. Do you understand me?"
She didn't answer. She couldn't. She just lay there, shaking in his arms, and let him hold her while the tears ran their course. The sobs came in waves, each one a little quieter than the last, and slowly, gradually, they faded into faint sniffles against his soaked shirt.
She felt his hand on her hair, stroking it slow, and she heard him murmur something low, something she didn't catch, but the sound of it was enough. It was steady. It was safe. She didn't know what to do with safe. She'd never had it before.
She was still trying to figure out what to do with it when the door opened, and she heard footsteps cross the room. She tensed, her body going still against Leonardo's chest, but his arms stayed loose and warm around her, and she heard him speak, his voice low. "It's okay. It's just Emerson."
She lifted her head, just enough to see over Leonardo's shoulder, and she saw the doctor standing in the doorway, a file folder in his hand and a look of concern on his face. His eyes moved from her to Leonardo, taking in the scene—the tears, the shaking, the way she was curled into Leonardo's chest like she was trying to disappear into him.
"Hey, sweetie," Emerson said, and his voice was soft, careful. "Why are there tears? I wasn't that mean, was I?"
She felt something catch in her chest, a hiccup of surprise, and then a small, involuntary sound escaped her throat. It wasn't quite a laugh, but it wasn't a sob either. It was something in between, something she didn't have a name for.
"No," she said, and her voice came out small and rough. "You weren't mean."
Emerson's face softened, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Good. Because I was worried there for a second. I've been told I have a very intimidating bedside manner."
She felt her lips twitch, a tiny, almost-involuntary movement, and she felt Leonardo's chest rumble beneath her, a low, warm laugh. "He's not wrong," Leonardo said. "He once made a grown man cry just by telling him he needed to eat more vegetables."
"That's not true," Emerson said, but he was smiling now, a real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "He was crying because I told him he had to give up red meat. It was a very emotional moment."
She felt something loosen in her chest, just a fraction. The tears were still wet on her cheeks, and her nose was running, and she was sure she looked terrible, but Emerson wasn't looking at her like she was broken. He was looking at her like she was just a little girl who'd had a hard morning.
"Can I—" She stopped, her voice catching. She looked at Emerson, at his open hands and his patient eyes, and she felt the words stick in her throat. But she reached out anyway, her small hand stretching toward him, and she saw his face change as he understood what she was asking.
"Come here, sweetheart," Emerson said, and he crossed the room in two steps, his arms already open. She slid off Leonardo's lap and into Emerson's arms, and he gathered her up like she was made of glass, cradling her against his chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder, breathing in the smell of antiseptic and something warm underneath it.
"I've got you," Emerson said, and his voice was rough, like he was holding something back. "I've got you, honey."
She felt Leonardo stand up, felt his hand on her hair, stroking it gentle. "I'm going to go get Sorin and Tomasso," he said, and his voice was low, meant only for her. "We're going to pick out some things you might like for breakfast. Emerson's going to take you back to your room, okay?"
She nodded against Emerson's shoulder, a small movement, and she felt Leonardo's hand linger on her head for a moment longer before he pulled away. She heard his footsteps cross the room, heard the soft click of the door, and then it was just her and Emerson in the quiet medical suite.
"You want to get out of here?" Emerson asked, his voice gentle. "I was thinking we could find you something to eat. Something warm. Maybe some pancakes?"
She didn't know what pancakes were. The word was foreign, strange, but it sounded soft and sweet, like something that might be good. She nodded against his shoulder, and she felt him adjust his grip, carrying her through the doorway and into the hallway.
The hallway was quiet, the dark wood and paintings passing by in a blur. She kept her face pressed against Emerson's shoulder, watching the world through the sliver of space between his arm and his chest. She felt his steps slow as he turned a corner, and she heard a door open, felt the change in the air as they entered a room.
She lifted her head, just enough to see. It was her room—the one from last night, with the soft bed and the chair by the window and the painting of boats and a harbor. The glass of water was still on the nightstand, the quilt still rumpled from where she'd slept.
Emerson set her down on the bed, slow and careful, and she felt the mattress give beneath her, soft and familiar. He crouched down in front of her, bringing his eyes level with hers, and she saw something in his face she hadn't seen before—a tenderness, a carefulness, like he was handling something precious.
"You did so well today," he said, and his voice was low, meant only for her. "I know it was hard. I know you didn't want to be examined, or get those shots, or any of it. But you did it anyway. That takes courage."
She didn't know what to say to that. No one had ever called her courageous before. Brave, maybe, in the way you'd call a dog brave for not biting. But not courageous. Not like it was something to be proud of.
"I don't feel courageous," she said, and her voice came out small and honest.
Emerson smiled, a soft, sad smile. "That's how courage usually feels. Like you're terrified and you do it anyway." He reached out, his hand hovering near her cheek, and then he paused, waiting, giving her time to decide. She didn't pull away, and he let his hand rest on her cheek, warm and gentle. "You're going to be okay, honey. I promise you that."
She didn't know if she believed him. She didn't know if she could believe anyone. But she was tired, so tired, and his hand was warm on her cheek, and the bed was soft beneath her, and somewhere in the house she could hear the low murmur of voices—Leonardo's rumble, a lighter laugh she didn't recognize, a grumble that might have been Tomasso.
She let her eyes close, just for a moment, and she felt Emerson's hand move to her hair, stroking it slow. "Rest," he said. "Just rest. We'll be right here when you wake up."
She didn't answer. She couldn't. But she felt her body sink into the mattress, felt the exhaustion pull her down like a tide, and for the first time in as long as she could remember, she didn't fight it.
The last thing she heard before sleep took her was Emerson's voice, low and steady, speaking to someone in the hallway. "She's asleep. Tell Leo she did good. She did so good."
And then the darkness pulled her under, warm and soft, and she let herself go.