Trigger warnings * angst, family drama, mentions of domestic violence*
The stolen van looks like the kind of thing that could either haul furniture or hide a body.
Given who's driving it, I'm not betting on furniture.
We've parked it under the shadow of a warehouse, the back doors yawning open to swallow whatever we load inside. And what we're loading is… well, Ardere. Which is like loading a priceless porcelain vase that also occasionally glares at you hard enough to blister your skin.
Lysander's already in "mission mode," which means zero patience for hesitation. He's kneeling beside her pallet of blankets, sliding one arm under her shoulders like he's done this a hundred times—though maybe not with someone he actually cares about keeping alive.
"Careful," I hiss, grabbing her legs before he can just yank her up. "You crush her ribs any more and she's going to fold in half like a busted accordion."
He shoots me a look sharp enough to draw blood. "I know exactly how much pressure she can withstand. Move when I tell you to."
Ardere's eyes flick between us, sharp and tracking, but her throat is a mess of angry bruises and scar tissue. Even if she wanted to intervene, her voice is locked behind a wall her body won't let her climb.
We start lifting in stages—me adjusting my grip every two seconds to keep from jostling her, Lysander muttering medical jargon under his breath like he's reciting an incantation. I'm halfway into the van when the question slips out before I can stop it.
"So, humor me—how exactly are you planning on buying miracle drugs from a black market without getting shot, robbed, or stabbed in the parking lot?"
Lysander doesn't even glance at me. "I know people."
"That's not comforting," I grunt, maneuvering her onto the mattress in the back. "Plenty of people 'know people,' and half of them end up dead in a ditch for their trouble."
He finally looks up, expression unreadable. "This compound isn't a street drug. It's experimental. I used it once—years ago—on a patient with catastrophic spinal damage. They walked again."
"Or you just got lucky and didn't kill them in the process."
His jaw flexes, but he keeps his voice even. "Every treatment carries risk. Doing nothing carries certainty. She'll never speak again. She'll never walk the way she did. Is that what you'd prefer?"
I glance at Ardere, lying rigid between us, her eyes burning into mine. I can't tell if she's trying to say Do it or Tell him to go to hell. Maybe both.
"I'd just like to know how you're so sure this won't finish what was started," I say finally, gripping the doorframe to keep from pacing.
Lysander tugs a blanket over her, tucking it with a precision that would almost look tender if I didn't know better. "Because I'm the one giving it to her. And if anyone tries to poison her… they'll answer to me first."
The van door slams shut behind him, sealing all three of us in stale air and silence. Ardere's gaze follows him, then cuts back to me.
She doesn't need a voice for me to hear what she's thinking:
If this goes wrong, you'd better be ready to finish it.
The first thirty minutes are quiet, except for the hum of the tires and the occasional jolt that makes Ardere's jaw tighten. I'm wedged in the back with her, trying to keep her from rolling too much with every bump, while Lysander drives like he's auditioning for a job as an unmarked hearse operator—smooth, fast, and just evasive enough to make me nervous.
Then Riven climbs in through the side door at a gas stop, tossing a greasy paper bag into my lap before flopping onto the bench opposite us.
"Lunch," he says cheerfully. "Or breakfast. Or… possibly a cry for help, depending on how long this meat's been sitting under a heat lamp."
I look down. Two suspiciously shiny breakfast burritos stare back at me. "You bought gas station food for her?" I nod toward Ardere, who's glaring at him like she'd stab him if her hands weren't wrapped in a blanket.
He smirks. "What? I figured she's had enough IV drips and bland broth. If this kills her, at least she'll go out tasting something."
"She can't even eat solid food yet," I snap.
Riven bites into one of the burritos with exaggerated relish, grease running down his knuckles. "Guess I'll take the risk for her, then. Selfless, I know."
From the driver's seat, Lysander growls, "If you get crumbs on her, I will staple your mouth shut."
"Hot," Riven mutters through a mouthful. "You're all business lately, Doc. What happened to bedside manner?"
"I reserve bedside manner for people worth my time."
"Ouch," Riven says, hand to his chest. "See, Ardere, this is why you should be thrilled about wanting to rip Dorian's head off earlier—means your brain's still mostly intact. It's practically a compliment."
Ardere's nostrils flare, and I swear she looks like she's calculating whether she could reach his throat before I stop her.
I lean back against the wall of the van. "Riven, don't encourage her homicidal side."
He grins. "Why not? She's the only one here who might actually succeed at killing me. Everyone else just talks about it."
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut paper. Lysander takes a turn hard enough to make us all sway. I steady Ardere, but her gaze is fixed on Riven like she's daring him to keep talking.
Naturally, he does.
"So, Doc," Riven says casually, "about this magic serum you're fetching from the back-alley fairy godmother—what's the shelf life? Asking for a friend who doesn't want his co-patient to liquefy from the inside out."
Lysander's knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. "It will work."
"Cool, cool," Riven says, licking his fingers. "That's what the guy who sold me a haunted toaster said, and now my bread smells like funerals."
I rub my temples. "We have hours of this, don't we?"
Riven leans back, stretching his legs out. "Oh, I'm just getting started. Somebody has to keep the mood light before we get shot trying to buy this stuff."
Ardere tilts her head at him—slow, deliberate—then flicks her gaze toward the window, as if to say If you're still talking by the time we get there, I'll solve that problem myself.
For once, Riven actually shuts up.
For about five minutes.
—
The van's air smells like old coffee and Riven's burrito, so when Lysander finally pulls into a rest stop, I'm almost grateful.
"Five minutes," he says, eyes on me in the mirror. "Don't wander."
I glance at Ardere. She hasn't moved much, but her eyes are sharper now, scanning the place. I help her down from the van, her weight light against my arm. She's walking better than yesterday, but every step still has a hitch.
The fluorescent-lit rest stop store hums with vending machines and the low murmur of travelers. Ardere heads toward the bathroom, and I trail behind just close enough to keep people from bumping into her.
That's when the woman notices. Late forties, chunky cardigan, a purse clutched like a lifeline. She's at the coffee station when she turns, freezes, and takes in Ardere from head to toe—every bruise, every awkward step, the faint tremor in her hands.
"Oh, honey…" she breathes, stepping closer. "Are you alright?"
Ardere blinks at her, expression unreadable. She doesn't try to answer—can't—and I feel my pulse spike.
"She's fine," I say quickly, keeping my voice light. "Just recovering from—" I wave vaguely, "—a car accident."
The woman's eyes flick to me, and I can see the gears turning. She's already wondering if she believes me.
"Sweetie, do you need help?" she asks, leaning toward Ardere now like I'm not even there. "Is someone hurting you?"
I take a step closer, but force my hands to stay loose at my sides. I can't grab her. I can't look like the bad guy. "She's with me," I say, softer this time. "We're just on our way to get her medical care."
The woman doesn't back off. She looks at Ardere like she's daring her to nod or shake her head. Ardere's gaze cuts to me for a split second, then back to the woman. She lifts her chin—barely—and walks toward the bathroom without answering.
"Sir," the woman says sharply, stepping in my path, "I think I should call—"
I smile. Too big. Too fast. "You really don't want to do that. The cops'll take one look at her file and she'll be stuck in a hospital she doesn't want, with bills she can't pay."
Her frown deepens, but my tone must've landed, because she just watches as I sidestep her and lean against the wall outside the bathroom. My heart's pounding in my throat.
Riven saunters up a minute later, sipping a soda. "What'd I miss?"
I nod toward the coffee station. "Concerned citizen. Almost dialed 911."
He looks at the woman, grins, and stage-whispers, "You should've told her you're the fun kind of kidnapper."
I don't even answer. The bathroom door opens, and Ardere steps out. She doesn't look at the woman, doesn't look at me. She just heads straight for the van, her steps quicker now.
Ardere climbed back into the van like every movement hurt—which, given the state she was in, wasn't far from the truth. Lysander already had his little doctor kit open, sitting sideways on the bench like she was a patient in his clinic instead of a barely functional human in a stolen vehicle.
"Sit," he told her, patting the space in front of him. "Let's see if you're actually improving or if you just sprinted because you wanted out of the public eye."
She sat, eyes darting toward the windshield. I followed her gaze—yep, Cardigan Lady was still out there in the rest stop lot, phone in hand, pretending to scroll but doing a poor job of hiding her concern. I couldn't blame her. Ardere looked like she'd been pulled from a building collapse and dragged across asphalt for fun.
Lysander took her wrist, counting her pulse with the kind of serene focus that made me want to shake him. "Blood pressure's holding," he muttered, inflating the cuff on her arm. "Pupils reactive, good. Any dizziness?"
Ardere shook her head once.
"I'm serious," he said, snapping his fingers by her ear. "If you pass out mid-step, I'm not fishing you out of a filthy restroom stall."
Riven hopped in beside her, soda in hand, looking far too relaxed for someone whose clothes probably still had other people's blood on them from two nights ago. "Lady over there's got her thumb on 911," he said, gesturing with his straw toward Cardigan. "I say we wave. Freak her out a little."
"Don't," I warned, leaning against the hood so I could keep both them and her in my line of sight. She hadn't stopped glancing over since Ardere walked out of that building.
Lysander scribbled something in his little notebook, then tilted Ardere's chin toward him. "More alert today," he noted. "Might even get you walking without that limp soon."
She ignored him completely, locking eyes with Cardigan instead. There was a faint gleam in her bruised face—half challenge, half spite.
"Do not encourage her," Lysander muttered, following her line of sight.
Cardigan shifted on her feet like she was debating whether to come over. My stomach tightened.
Riven grinned like a wolf. "Ten bucks says she follows us onto the highway."
"Twenty says she calls before we even pull out," I said, peeling myself off the hood.
Lysander snapped the med bag shut. "We're leaving," he said, and that was that.
I slid into the back seat, watching Cardigan in the mirror until we were back on the road. She lingered there in my head longer than she should've—because if she had made the call, I wasn't sure how I'd explain Ardere in a way that didn't get us all cuffed inside of five minutes.
The hum of the tires had been our soundtrack for an hour, punctuated only by the occasional slurp from Riven's soda and Ardere's slow, steady breathing behind me. The rest stop lady hadn't followed us—no unmarked cars tailing, no sudden sirens—but the knot in my stomach hadn't gone anywhere.
Lysander broke the silence without looking up from the map spread over his knees. "Here's how this is going to work. Riven's coming with me into the market. His… talents will make sure no one decides to shoot us over a misheard number."
"Talents," Riven repeated, leaning his head against the window. "You mean my godlike ability to convince people to give me things they swore they'd never part with?"
Lysander didn't even blink. "Yes. That one."
I glanced at Ardere. She was curled sideways in her seat, watching the scenery blur past like it wasn't worth remembering.
"And me?" I asked, though I already had a bad feeling about the answer.
"You," Lysander said, finally meeting my eyes in the mirror, "are staying in the hotel room with Ardere."
I raised an eyebrow. "Babysitting duty? What, no faith in my charm to win over the shady black market crowd?"
"Zero," he said flatly. "And don't think for a second this is about trust. The only reason you're not being locked in the van is because Ardere can't be left alone. You'll be in the room together. You won't leave. And if you so much as breathe wrong in her direction, I will make sure no one ever finds your body."
Riven snorted. "Wow. Romance is dead."
"I'm not joking," Lysander said, and he wasn't. His eyes were calm, but there was something behind them—sharp and cold—that made it clear I was very much replaceable.
I held his gaze for a beat, then looked back at the road. "Crystal clear."
From the back, Ardere shifted slightly, the fabric of her hoodie rasping against the seat. She didn't speak, but I could feel her attention like a weight.
Lysander folded the map and tucked it away. "We stop at the hotel in two hours. Riven and I will be gone for three, maybe four. You keep her alive. That's it."
"And if someone kicks in the door?" I asked.
"Then," Riven said, grinning without looking at me, "you get to find out how much you really like breathing."
The hotel was one of those chain places that tried too hard to seem clean. The air smelled faintly of bleach and burnt coffee, the carpet was patterned in a way that seemed designed to hide stains, and the buzzing from the ice machine down the hall was just loud enough to be annoying.
Lysander didn't waste time once we were inside the room. He shut the door, turned the lock, then pointed at me like I was some mutt that needed to be shown where to sit.
"You don't open this door for anyone. Not the staff, not me, not God himself. If the fire alarm goes off, you wait until you see actual flames before you move her."
I leaned against the wall. "You do realize if there's an actual fire—"
"I'm not done," he cut in, voice sharp enough to make me bite down on the rest of the sentence. "She stays in your sight. You don't go to the vending machine. You don't take a shower. You don't even step into the hallway. If she needs water, you get it from the sink in the bathroom while keeping the door open so you can still see her."
"Paranoid much?" I muttered.
Lysander took one deliberate step closer, his voice dropping. "This isn't paranoia, Dorian. It's the reason we're still alive. If I find out—if I even suspect—you've let her out of your sight, or spoken to her in a way that makes her uncomfortable, or so much as looked at her wrong, I will put you in a place no one will ever think to look."
His eyes didn't waver. There wasn't any heat in them—just that same cold, measured certainty that made him so damn hard to read.
Riven lounged on the edge of the bed, sipping from a little bottle of orange juice he'd stolen from the lobby fridge. "I think he's serious," he said around a mouthful of liquid.
Lysander didn't even glance at him. "Three hours. Maybe four. If we're not back by then, you stay put until we are. Understood?"
I raised my hands in mock surrender. "Understood."
"Good." Lysander turned to Ardere, who was sitting cross-legged on the second bed, hoodie hood pulled low over her face. "If he gives you any trouble, you grief bomb this place until someone calls for help."
She didn't respond—not a nod, not even a flicker of her gaze—but her stillness was answer enough.
Lysander opened the door, Riven trailing after him with a little wave in my direction. The door clicked shut behind them, and the room suddenly felt a lot smaller.
I exhaled slowly, glancing at Ardere. She was still as a stone, eyes fixed on the cheap floral bedspread.
Three hours alone with a girl who probably hated my guts and a promise from Lysander to bury me alive if I messed up.
Perfect.
I figured silence was only going to make the hours feel longer, so I grabbed the remote off the nightstand and plopped down on the bed closest to the TV.
"Man," I said, flicking it on, "you realize how long it's been since we've seen a television? Like… an actual, honest-to-God TV that isn't bolted behind bulletproof glass in a waiting room?"
The screen lit up to some late-night sitcom rerun, all laugh track and bad lighting. I grinned. "Look at that. Moving pictures and sound. Humanity's greatest achievement. You'd think after all the crap we've been through, we'd get a parade, but nope—just us and a thirty-year-old episode of Friends."
Ardere didn't even look at the TV. She was watching me—no, evaluating me—from her bed, eyes steady, lips pressed thin.
"What?" I asked, leaning back on one elbow. "Not a fan of mid-2000s comedy? We can find a cooking show. Oh, or one of those crime docs where everyone's obviously guilty but they drag it out for six episodes—"
She shifted. It was small, deliberate. Her hand came up, two fingers brushing her shoulder, then making a slow downward motion toward her side. Then she flicked her eyes toward the bathroom door.
I frowned. "What…?"
She repeated the gesture, a little sharper this time. Eyes to the door. Back to me.
"Oh no," I said, sitting up. "No, no, no. You want to shower? Yeah, that's not happening. That's like, I dunno, breaking every single one of Lysander's rules in record time. He practically said bathrooms are lava."
She just stared at me. No flinch, no shrug. Just this quiet, stubborn weight in her gaze.
I rubbed the back of my neck. "Look, I get it. You probably hate smelling like… well, everything we've been through the last few days. But if you close that door, I can't see you, and if I can't see you, Lysander is going to put my body in a ditch somewhere outside state lines."
Her hand came up again—flat palm, slow push through the air. Not asking. Telling.
I let out a breath that was half laugh, half groan. "You really don't care if I end up dead, huh?"
Nothing. Just that same steady stare.
God, she was good at making silence feel like a trap.
She didn't break eye contact as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I said, holding up a hand. "Let's—uh—circle back to the part where I live. I like that part. It's one of my favorites."
She stood, slow and deliberate, like she was daring me to try and stop her.
"I'm serious, Ardere. Lysander gave me a whole PowerPoint presentation on what happens if I screw this up. And spoiler: none of the slides ended with me alive."
She walked right past me toward the bathroom. No hesitation.
I scrambled up, half blocking the door like a bad bouncer. "Okay. Look. Maybe we can compromise. How about I find a washcloth and a sink and—"
She stopped in front of me, tilting her head just enough to make it clear she was already calculating the exact number of steps it would take to sidestep me and close the door before I reacted.
I exhaled through my teeth. "You're gonna do this whether I like it or not, aren't you?"
She gave the tiniest, most infuriating nod.
I dragged a hand down my face. "Alright. Fine. But we're doing it my way so I can at least tell Lysander I technically didn't break the rules."
Her eyebrow lifted, skeptical.
"I mean it. Door stays open a crack—like, visible crack, not your 'oops, it swung shut' crack. I'm sitting right here in the doorway. No ninja moves. No disappearing acts. No making me feel like I just helped you escape so your brother can stab me later, okay?"
She just brushed past me into the bathroom, already pulling the shower curtain halfway closed in what I knew was about to be the first of several "negotiations."
I sank down cross-legged in the doorway, muttering to myself. "Yeah, this'll go great. Lysander's gonna come back, see me babysitting a half-steamed bathroom, and maybe—if I'm really lucky—only break one of my legs."
From inside, the shower turned on.
I sighed. "And people think the black market's dangerous. Try surviving this."
—
The shower cut off with a final sputter, and the silence hit heavier than I expected.
I stayed in the doorway, staring at the hallway carpet like it held the secrets to my survival. Steam curled around my shoulders, the bathroom a glowing cloud behind me.
Then came the sound of the curtain sliding open, soft squelches of wet feet against tile.
I cleared my throat. "For the record, I'm looking away. That's me, following the rules. No need for witnesses to my good behavior, but still—it's happening."
Something thunked against the counter—probably her grabbing the clothes I'd set there earlier. I heard the rustle of fabric.
I risked a glance, just over my shoulder. She was wrapped in a towel, hair dripping down her neck. And she was giving me that look—the one that could be translated in any language as you're in my way.
"Don't give me that. You wanted a shower, you got a shower. My job was to make sure you didn't die in there, not… whatever this next part is."
She made a sharp little gesture with her fingers, pointing from me to the hall.
"Nope," I said immediately. "Not leaving. Lysander's rules: eyes on you. And I'm already hanging onto that by the thinnest thread possible. You vanish into the next room, and I'm dead before checkout."
She rolled her eyes, then pointed to her own throat, then to the counter, then mimed wrapping something around herself.
It took me a second. "Oh. Bandages. Right. Lysander'll kill me if those get wet and stay that way."
Which meant I had to help.
I groaned. "Fantastic. Just the intimate little task every fugitive dreams of doing for their mute, half-feral… coworker? Partner? Prisoner? Whatever you are."
I grabbed the first aid kit from the bag Lysander left and crouched in the doorway. "Alright, here's how we're doing this—no sudden moves, and if you decide to stab me with the scissors, I'm haunting you."
She sat on the edge of the tub, silent, towel pulled tight, eyes locked on me like I might screw this up in ways she couldn't even imagine.
My hands worked fast—unwrapping, blotting, rewrapping—never lingering longer than necessary. Still, I could feel her gaze boring into the side of my head the whole time.
When I was done, I tossed the damp gauze into the trash and stood. "There. Good as new. And I didn't even get blood on the floor. You're welcome."
She didn't thank me, of course. Just pulled her clothes on and brushed past me, leaving a trail of wet footprints down the hall.
I was mid–mental debate over whether the shower ordeal counted as cardio when Ardere came back from the bathroom, hair damp, clean clothes on, and an expression that said you're about to be involved in something.
She flopped onto the bed, grabbed the hotel notepad and pen, and started scribbling. When she turned it toward me, it just said:
FOOD. ROOM SERVICE.
I snorted. "Yeah, no. You know the rules. No opening the door for anyone. Not even if they come dressed as a pizza."
She underlined the words and added a little drawing of a steaming plate.
"Nice art. Still no."
She sighed silently, dropped the pen, and leaned back on the bed like she was thinking of a better plan. And then she hit me with it—head tilted, eyes big, lips pressed together in the softest little pout. Not angry. Not demanding. Just… please.
I actually felt something short-circuit behind my ribs.
"Nope. Not working. You think I'm that easy?"
She kept staring. Her fingers toyed with the corner of the notepad, gaze flicking between me and the phone on the nightstand.
I broke first. I always break first.
I dragged a hand down my face. "Okay, look. If Lysander comes back and asks if we opened the door, you're taking the blame. I'll throw you under the bus so fast your head'll spin."
She smiled—just barely—and I knew I was absolutely doomed.
I picked up the phone, already hating myself. "Yeah, hi, can we get—" I glanced at her. She mimed eating an invisible burger. "—two cheeseburgers, fries, and whatever dessert will make me hate myself the most."
When I hung up, she gave me this tiny, satisfied nod, and went back to pretending she wasn't dangerous.
Me? I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the door, and wondered when exactly I'd lost control of this situation.
Probably around the moment she looked at me like that.
The knock came fifteen minutes later. Sharp. Too sharp for comfort.
I froze mid–chew on my thumbnail and looked at Ardere. She was already perched on the bed like a kid on Christmas morning, watching me with bright, expectant eyes.
"Remember," I whispered, pointing at her. "If I get killed for this, you tell Lysander it was your fault."
She rolled her eyes and mimed zipping her lips.
I crept toward the door, heart pounding like I was about to negotiate with a hostage-taker. There was no peephole—great—so I had to work off the voice alone.
"Room service," a muffled guy said.
"Cool," I called back. "Just… leave it. I'll grab it in a sec."
There was a pause, then the shuffle of footsteps. I waited a good thirty seconds before cracking the door an inch and snaking my arm out to snag the tray. Felt like I was in some bad spy movie. Managed not to expose a single square inch of myself to the hallway. Closed the door, locked it, checked it twice.
When I turned around, Ardere was practically vibrating. She patted the empty space beside her on the bed, eyes locked on the covered plates.
"You're unbelievable," I muttered, setting the tray down. "Do you have any idea how—"
I stopped.
She'd already lifted the lid, steam curling into the air, and when she looked at me, it wasn't smug or manipulative. It was… happy. Genuine. First real smile I'd seen from her in days.
And it hit me in the gut.
I could already feel the impending lecture from Lysander like a storm cloud over my head, but looking at her now—warm, alive, beaming at me over two cheeseburgers—I knew the ass beating was going to be worth it.
Completely, stupidly worth it.
***
Ardere was out cold, sprawled sideways across the bed, one arm hanging off the edge like she'd passed out mid–victory lap.
I sat beside her, my palm wrapped loosely around her wrist, counting each steady beat. Her face was slack, peaceful—mouth parted slightly, damp hair fanning over the pillow. The happiest coma of her life, probably. And me? I was sitting here like an idiot, memorizing the weight of her pulse in my hand because this was probably the closest I'd ever get to holding her again.
The lock rattled.
I yanked my hand back just before the door swung open.
Lysander came in first, looking like the human embodiment of a thundercloud. Riven followed, chewing gum and looking like Christmas came early.
Lysander didn't even glance at the empty plates stacked on the dresser or the towel balled up in the corner. If he noticed Ardere's wet hair, he didn't comment. He went straight to the bag in his hand, pulling out a small brown bottle like it was a live grenade.
"Got something," he said flatly. "Not what I wanted, but it'll have to do."
Riven leaned on the wall, grinning at me like he knew every single rule I'd broken and was just waiting for me to squirm.
"What's the difference?" I asked.
"This one's oral," Lysander said, unscrewing the cap. "And it tastes like death. She's not gonna like it."
"That's… not ideal," I said carefully, glancing at Ardere.
"Not ideal is letting her get worse because she won't take it," Lysander snapped.
Riven's grin widened. "Oh, this is gonna be fun. Can't wait to see you try to convince her."
I swallowed. Yeah. This was going to go over great.
Lysander set the bottle on the desk with a sharp thunk and pulled out a small measuring cup.
"Wake her up," he ordered without looking at me. "Get her ready to take it. I'll pour."
Riven pushed off the wall like he'd just been given the best assignment of his life. "On it."
I shot him a glare. "Gently."
He gave me a what, me? look, but to his credit, he only nudged Ardere's shoulder with two fingers. "Rise and shine, princess."
Her lashes fluttered, and she squinted up at us. For about three seconds, she looked adorably confused… then her eyes slid to the brown bottle in Lysander's hand. Her expression iced over instantly.
"Nope," I said before Lysander could start in. "Don't do that. Don't—"
She made a sharp little gesture—fingers slicing through the air, head turning away—that was the silent equivalent of over my dead body.
"Yeah, this is gonna be a problem," Riven said cheerfully.
Lysander didn't look up from measuring. "That's why you're here. Convince her."
I crouched beside the bed, trying to get her to look at me again. "It's just medicine," I said, knowing full well it tasted like something scraped off the bottom of a ship hull. "Small dose. Down in two seconds."
Her gaze cut back to me, slow and deliberate, and she gave the tiniest, most defiant shake of her head.
"Fantastic," Riven said, grinning like a hyena. "You're already losing."
I stayed crouched beside the bed, keeping my voice low, like coaxing her was some delicate operation.
"Come on, it's nothing. Just one sip. I'll even get you water right after."
Her eyes narrowed, head tipping just enough to say, You must think I was born yesterday.
"Alright," I tried again, switching tactics. "If you take it, I'll—uh—let you pick the next thing we watch."
Nothing. Not even a blink.
Riven leaned in from behind me, stage-whispering, "Wow. Shot down hard. You losing your touch, Dorian?"
I ignored him. "What about food? Something sweet?"
That got the tiniest flicker of interest—but she caught herself too quickly, folding her arms tight.
"You're impossible," I muttered.
Then she hit me with it.
The look. The pouty lower lip, the wide eyes, the tilt of her head that made her look both innocent and devastating. The one that made my chest feel like it had caved in and my brain forget how to string words together.
"Don't—" I warned, already doomed. "Don't look at me like that."
She kept looking at me like that.
I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. "Alright, fine. I'll—"
"That's enough," Lysander's voice cut in, sharp as a blade. I looked up just in time to see him setting the little measuring cup on the desk, full of thick, brown liquid.
"You're useless," he said flatly. "Move."
"Hey, I was making progress—"
"You were getting worked like a marionette," Riven said helpfully.
Lysander ignored us both, already striding toward the bed with a predator's focus. "My turn."
And just like that, my stomach sank, because Lysander's "method" never involved negotiation—it involved winning. At all costs.
Lysander came in looking like a storm cloud with a plan. He didn't even glance at the bed or at Ardere's still-damp hair—just set the bottle on the nightstand with a thunk and started measuring out a dose.
"Sit her up," he said, calm but clipped.
Riven was on it immediately, grinning like this was the best entertainment he'd had all week. I stayed exactly where I was, arms crossed, watching. I'd already tried to coax her into taking it—fat lot of good that did.
Ardere clocked the bottle right away. The second she saw the amber glass, her shoulders tensed, and she shook her head once.
"No," she was saying without a sound. Just the sharp snap of her chin.
"Yes," Lysander replied, not even looking up from his careful pour.
Another shake—harder this time, like she thought that would make a difference.
"Yes," he repeated, finally meeting her eyes, his voice all patience with an edge of steel.
Her glare sharpened, but before she could dig in further, Lysander was moving. Fast. He slid onto the bed beside her, arm looping around her shoulders. She twisted, trying to duck under his grip, but he had her like a vice—one palm at the back of her head, the other tipping her chin up toward him.
She bared her teeth in a silent snarl, fingers clawing at his wrist, trying to shove him off. I almost stepped in—almost—but there was no stopping him once he'd decided.
"You can drink it willingly," he said evenly, "or you can drink it my way. You know which one I prefer."
She kicked out under the blankets, heel thumping the mattress. Lysander didn't flinch. His fingers pinched her nose in one smooth motion, and the moment her lips parted for air, he tipped the cup in.
The liquid hit her tongue and she jerked like she'd been burned, gagging immediately. Her hands shot up, shoving at his chest, but he held her steady until she swallowed. I could see it in her eyes—the moment it went down, the betrayal was complete.
She twisted away from him the second his grip loosened, coughing into the blankets, eyes watering. Her whole face contorted like she'd just licked the bottom of a dumpster.
"Tastes worse than it smells," Riven said cheerfully, leaning on the bedpost.
"That's saying something," I muttered.
She shot me a look—half plea, half I hate all of you—before grabbing for the water glass. Riven handed it over with an exaggerated flourish, and she gulped it down like it might erase the memory. Judging by the way she still grimaced, it didn't.
Lysander was already capping the bottle, his expression unreadable. "Six hours. Next dose. Try not to make it a wrestling match."
Ardere sank back into the pillows, still glaring at him, silent but lethal. If looks could kill, Lysander would've been dead twice over.
Riven wandered off first, probably to go find something loud and obnoxious to do. I stayed behind, watching Ardere sip her water like it was her last defense against Lysander's tyranny.
When he turned to leave, I followed him into the hall.
"You call that care?" I snapped, keeping my voice low so Ardere wouldn't hear. "Manhandling her like that?"
He didn't stop walking. "She got the medicine, didn't she?"
"That's not the point." My hands clenched at my sides. "You can't just—" I gestured vaguely back toward the room, "—wrestle her every time she doesn't agree with you."
Lysander finally looked at me, brows drawn, expression flat as a wall. "If she fights me, then yeah. I will."
The bluntness of it hit me harder than the words themselves. Like he'd already made his peace with whatever anyone thought of his methods.
"She's not a child," I muttered.
"She's sick," he countered, voice still maddeningly even. "And sometimes being sick means you don't get a choice. She'll thank me when she's better."
I bit back the reply I wanted to make—something about how she definitely wouldn't be thanking him—and let him go. The man had all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
And, annoyingly, all the results.
I didn't let it drop. I should have, but my mouth had other plans.
"You ever think maybe she fights you because you treat her like she's some fragile little—" I stopped myself, but not fast enough. "No wonder she hates taking anything from you."
Lysander froze mid-step. Slowly, he turned, and the look he gave me could've frozen running water.
"Careful," he said, his voice quiet in that way that means it's more dangerous, not less. "You've known her for… what? A blink? I've been keeping her alive her whole life."
The words landed heavier than I expected.
He stepped in closer, just enough to make me feel like he could see every thought I didn't say. "You get to play hero for a few weeks and think you know what's best? You don't. Not for her. Not for what she's been through. She's here because I kept her breathing when no one else would."
My jaw tightened. I wanted to argue, to throw it back at him that she's not just a case file or a responsibility—but under the weight of his stare, I shut up.
I found her curled up sideways on the bed, knees tucked in, hair still damp from her rebellion of a shower. The empty glass of water from earlier sat on the nightstand like a trophy she'd earned just for surviving Lysander's "medicinal hospitality."
I knelt beside the mattress, keeping my voice low. "Hey."
Her eyes opened a sliver, wary at first, like she wasn't sure if I was bringing round two of the Lysander Special. When she saw it was just me, they softened—but not enough to say she forgave me for letting him shove that stuff down her throat.
"I… shouldn't have let him be that rough," I said, and even as the words left my mouth, I knew they were useless. I wasn't the one who could change how Lysander handled her. "You okay?"
She gave the smallest shrug, then pushed herself up to sit. Her gaze flicked from my face to my hands, as if she was weighing whether or not to push me away.
"I'm sorry," I said again, quieter this time. "I should've stopped him. Or… tried harder, at least."
She didn't write anything, didn't mime words, but she didn't look away either. Instead, she reached out—hesitant, deliberate—and touched my wrist. Just a ghost of contact.
It was nothing. And it was everything.
I smiled, faint and crooked. "You keep doing that and I'm gonna forget Lysander wants me dead."
That earned me the tiniest, blink-and-you-miss-it upturn at the corner of her mouth. Then she let go, lay back down, and shut her eyes.
I stayed there longer than I should have, leaning my arms on the mattress and watching her chest rise and fall. It was quiet enough to almost forget where we were, quiet enough that I could pretend Lysander wasn't going to come back and bark at me for something I hadn't done yet.
That's when the door creaked.
Riven's head appeared in the gap, a smirk already plastered on his face. "Aww. Look at you, playing Florence Nightingale."
I shot him a glare that should've melted him on the spot. "Get lost."
He ignored me, slipping halfway into the room. "Careful, Dorian. You keep gazing at her like that, Lysander's gonna think you're trying to steal his—" He caught himself, eyes darting toward Ardere, then back to me with that sharky grin. "—job."
"Out," I said, jabbing a finger toward the door.
Ardere's eyes were open now, and she was watching me with that unreadable, sharp look she had. Like she'd just been reminded of something I was trying hard to forget.
****
Six hours later, I woke up with a kink in my neck that could've been classified as assault. Sleeping in the desk chair by the window wasn't exactly comfortable, but apparently I was still at the bottom of the "bed privileges" list.
I rubbed my eyes—and froze when I realized what I was looking at.
Lysander stood beside the bed with the little brown glass bottle in his hand, staring down at Ardere like a man preparing for battle. She was upright this time, blanket wrapped around her like armor, eyes locked on him in open defiance.
"Ardere," he said, voice flat. "We're not doing this again. You need it."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. No movement.
"Fine," he muttered, already rolling up his sleeves like this was going to be a surgical procedure.
When he reached for the blanket, she twisted so fast I thought she'd dislocate something, shoving him away with her shoulder. He came back in, but she kicked out, catching him in the thigh with enough force to make him grunt.
"Really?" I said from my chair.
"Stay out of it," Lysander snapped, grabbing for her wrist—but she slid off the other side of the bed before he could catch her.
She bolted for the corner, blanket dragging behind her, but he was faster. He hooked an arm around her waist and hauled her back, ignoring her elbow jabs to his ribs.
Instead of going for the nose-pinch like last time, he shifted tactics—cradling the back of her head in one big hand and wedging the dropper between her lips before she could clamp them shut. He tilted her forward, using his body weight to force her off-balance so she had to focus on staying upright. While she was distracted, he squeezed the liquid in.
She instantly tried to spit it out—so he covered her mouth with his palm, tipping her chin up so gravity did the rest.
The glare she gave him when he pulled his hand away could've incinerated the curtains. She swallowed with an exaggerated gag, then yanked the blanket over her head like she was done with the world.
By the time Lysander finally calls it quits on this round of Let's Torture the Mute Girl With Medicine, Ardere's curled up on the bed, glaring at him like she's plotting his murder in thirty-two different ways. Riven's still snickering under his breath, which earns him an elbow from me.
"Don't encourage her," I mutter.
"What? I'm just admiring her form. That right hook was beautiful."
Lysander's too busy putting the bottle away to notice, or maybe he's just pretending not to hear. He mutters something about the next dose and disappears into the bathroom.
When the room finally quiets, I wander over to the bed and crouch down beside Ardere. She's got her knees pulled up, chin resting on them, hair damp from the earlier shower. Her eyes flick to mine, and for the first time in days, she doesn't look like she's seconds from bolting.
"You okay?" I ask softly. She tilts her head, the kind of shrug that's more "I'll live" than "yes."
I smile a little. "You fought like hell today. I think Riven's actually scared of you now."
That earns me the tiniest, almost-imperceptible twitch of her mouth. Not quite a smile. But close enough that I feel something in my chest loosen.
I grab the blanket at the foot of the bed and drape it over her. "You can rest now. No more battles tonight, promise."
She doesn't move when I sit on the edge of the bed. Just leans ever so slightly into my side, like maybe she's letting me be here. I don't breathe too loud, don't ruin it.
Her eyes close. Her breathing evens out. And for the first time since we landed in this hotel room, she looks peaceful.
I know it's temporary. I know Lysander will wake her in six hours to shove another dose down her throat, and she'll hate him all over again. But for right now, she's warm against me, and she's safe, and that's enough.
I lean back against the headboard, watching the city lights flicker through the curtains, and let myself pretend the world outside doesn't exist.
Just for tonight.