Not when I still don’t know how deep this rabbit hole goes.
Rowen and Emerson are on him now, voices sharp with panic as they press into the blood and bark orders at each other. Neither one is looking at me anymore, too consumed with keeping their brother alive to notice the ghost of a girl watching from the corner of the room. My heart is hammering, throat burning with the restraint it takes to stay put.
Ronan’s eyes flick toward me—barely open but focused enough. There’s recognition there. Trust. And something deeper that threatens to undo me completely.
He passes out a moment later—eyes rolling back, body sagging into the soaked sheets like every string holding him upright finally snaps.
Emerson is already on the phone, barking demands at someone on the other end. I hear snippets—coordinates, urgency, blood loss. His voice is sharp, focused, but I can feel the tremor under it. They’re terrified. They should be.
I must have been standing here, frozen, eyes locked on Ronan as if staring hard enough would anchor him to this world. I don’t know how long I stand there—silent, still—until the sound of approaching footsteps shakes the floor. But I don’t move. Not even as the room fills with people, medics swarming in like a tide, barking orders of their own.
There was plenty of time to run. To disappear out the same window the phantom who shot him vanished through. To become smoke again, like I always do. But something deeper than fear roots me in place.
I can’t leave.
Not him.
Not like this.
I stay until they lift Ronan from the bed, blood-soaked bandages pressed tight to his chest. I stay as Emerson moves aside to give them space, still yelling at his phone. And I stay just long enough for the one person I’ve avoided the longest to turn toward me.
Rowen.
His gaze slams into mine with all the force of a wrecking ball. Fury ignites like gasoline, roaring behind his eyes. He’s Ronan’s twin, his mirror in almost every way—but right now, he’s the darker half. The one made of sharp edges and barely buried pain.
When his eyes drop to the floor—to the gun still resting inches from my foot—I see it. The instant shift.
Something inside him snaps.
He sees the weapon. Then me. And something terrible locks into place.
His face goes cold. Mouth tightens. Jaw clenches.
And then he moves.
Stalking toward me like a storm with one target. His fists are clenched, every muscle pulled tight. I don’t need him to say a word to know what’s behind those eyes.
Hatred.
Rage.
And the unmistakable promise of retribution.
He snatches me by the upper arm with a force that sends a jolt through my shoulder, his grip unrelenting, punishing. But I don’t fight it. Not right now. My limbs hang loose at my sides, and I let him drag me closer like dead weight. He knows who I am—or at least, who I’ve pretended to be in the ring. The fighter. The ghost with fists. Cupcake. He knows I’m not helpless. Not fragile.
But he doesn’t seem to care.
His face is carved from stone, jaw tight, muscles tense beneath his shirt like a coil ready to snap. I don’t dare meet his eyes. Even with my colored contacts firmly in place and my hair drastically different, there’s always a chance. One wrong look, one breath too familiar, and it’ll click. And I can’t afford for it to click. Not yet.
“Who sent you?” he growls, voice low and sharp like a knife sliding between ribs.
I shake my head slowly, carefully, keeping my eyes just low enough to avoid the full weight of his stare. If I speak—if he hears my voice—there’s a risk. A sound is harder to disguise than a face. A memory can be shattered by time, but a voice can haunt forever.
His grip tightens; fingers dig into the meat of my arm until I know it’ll bruise. That old ache I used to feel around him and his brothers stirs—but it’s laced now with something new. Something colder.
“No one attacks my family and gets away with it,” he snaps. “You better hope he lives, or this is going to be extremely painful.”
His words cut deeper than he knows.