I kneel to help Keira step into her pants, steadying her with a hand on her hip. Her legs are unsteady. I’ve seen this before—the body shutting down after extreme stress. It’s not weakness. It’s biology.
“You did well,” I tell her, zipping her jacket. “It’s finished now.”
Her violet-blue eyes find mine, unfocused. She’s processing what she’s done, what we’ve done together. I cup her face between my palms, anchoring her to the present moment.
“We need to move,” I say gently. “Can you walk?”
She nods, still dazed.
“Good girl,” I murmur, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Cyrus will handle him. You’re with me.”
I lead Keira upstairs, away from the basement’s carnage. My arm stays firm around her waist, supporting her weight as the adrenaline crash takes hold. Her skin is clammy beneath my fingertips.
“Sit,” I direct, guiding her to a leather armchair in Henderson’s living room.
She collapses into it, her body trembling more violently now. I retrieve a blanket from the couch and wrap it around her shoulders, my movements precise yet gentler than I’d normally allow. Below us, I hear Cyrus dragging Henderson’s wrapped body toward the garage.
I kneel before Keira, taking her ice-cold hands between mine. Her eyes remain unfocused, staring through me rather than at me.
“Look at me,” I command. When she doesn’t respond, I cup her face, turning it toward mine. “Keira. Focus.”
Her gaze finally meets mine, tears pooling but not falling.
“I—” she starts. “I didn’t expect to feel...”
“I know.” I stroke my thumb across her cheekbone, catching a tear as it escapes. “The first time is always disorienting. You’re not broken because you enjoyed it,” I tell her, my voice low. “You’re exceptional.”
Her eyes widen at the unexpected praise. I lean forward, pressing my lips against hers in a kiss that contains none of our usual aggression. It’s soft, almost tender. When I pull back, I find myself surprised by the gesture.
“Ace,” she whispers, her fingers curling into my shirt.
I cover her hand with mine, feeling the tremble in her fingers. Words build in my throat—unfamiliar, dangerous words I’ve never allowed myself to speak. Not to Cyrus. Not to anyone.
The truth is simple and terrifying: I would burn this world to ash for her. For them both.
I swallow the admission back down where it belongs. Sentiment is weakness. The Collective beat that lesson into us until it became reflex. Even now, so many years later, I can hear Handler Eight’s cold voice.
Attachment is failure. Love is death.
Yet here I am, my chest constricting as I watch Keira struggle with the aftermath of vengeance. My control over my emotions is slipping through my fingers like sand.
Behind me, I hear Cyrus’s footsteps on the stairs. He’s always moved with deliberate noise around me, a courtesy born from years when silence meant danger. The familiar rhythm of his gait settles something in me that I hadn’t realized was unsettled.
“Car’s ready,” he says from the doorway.
I nod without turning. “We’ll be right there.”
In the brief silence that follows, I know he’s assessing the scene—me kneeling before Keira, her hands in mine, the gentleness in my posture. I feel his gaze like a physical touch between my shoulder blades. My twin. My mirror. My only constant.
Neither of us has ever needed words. Not really. I’ve never told him what he means to me—how his presence has always been the only home I’ve known in a world of darkness. The thought of losing him is the one fear I have never conquered.
And now there’s Keira. This unexpected variable that’s somehow become essential.
I help her to her feet, keeping my arm around her waist. Her head drops against my shoulder.
“Let’s go home,” I say simply, though the wordhomecatches strangely in my throat.
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