Love that Kinky King

It also didn't hurt that there were more than a few comments on the wolves personal appearances as well, many of them noting how handsome and well-kept they all looked. Not the savage and barbarous monsters they were told they were. The B roll of Samantha playing fetch with Mike was a source of amusement and comments on how domestic and relaxed everyone looked popped up and spread quickly, as well as the looks of genuine love and affection they gave her, and how quickly they had rushed to protect her.

There would always be people who refused to see the truth of what had happened right in front of them, but those that were questioning outnumbered the zealous.

Walter was in the office on his laptop when his phone chimed and he picked it up, looking at the screen.

Samantha: I need you

Something in the words made his spine stiffen and he set his laptop aside, getting up from the couch and heading into the master bedroom. The coppery smell of blood hit his nose first and he ran into the bathroom, his eyes immediately going to Samantha on the floor by the toilet, blood stark against the white tile floor. She was sobbing as she tried to clean it up with towels, but only succeeded in spreading it around more.

“Samantha!” He exclaimed, rushing to her and kneeling beside her. “What happened?! Where are you hurt?!” He didn't see any wounds that would explain the amount of blood on the floor.

“It's not--I’m not hurt.” She said, her voice breaking. “Please. Please don't tell the others.”

“Don't tell them...”

“Please don't tell them, they can't know. Please, Walter, please.”

“Samantha, tell me what's going on. What can't they know?” That only made her cry harder and she sat back on the floor, wrapping her arms around herself protectively. She just kept begging him not to tell the others, her broken heart plain to see. Really looking at her, he saw the blood on her hands from trying to clean it up, but the majority of it was on her legs and thighs bared by the oversized shirt she was wearing. “Oh love.”

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I didn't mean to. I didn't know.”

“Samantha, look at me.”

“I didn't know. I swear I didn't know. I'm so sorry.”

“Samantha.” He said, reaching out to touch her but she recoiled away from him.

“Please forgive me. I didn't know.”

“It's not your fault.” He said, “I don't blame you. No one will blame you for this. It wasn't your fault. You didn't do this.”

“I'm so sorry. Please forgive me.” He gently pulled her against his chest, tears burning at his eyes as she sobbed against him. Geralt suddenly appeared in the doorway, his eyes moving around the room, looking for danger.

“What happened?” He asked, “I smelled blood.”

“I'm so sorry.” Samantha sobbed and his face fell as he took in the scene, the realization of what happened hitting him. “I didn't know.”

“We need to get her off the floor.” Geralt said and Walter nodded, sliding an arm under her knees and lifting her.

“Please forgive me. I didn't know.”

“Samantha.” Geralt said, going to them, his eyes red. “It wasn't your fault.”

“Take her.” Walter said, “I'll clean this up.” He gently passed her to Geralt who held her against his chest, her fingers twisted in his shirt.

“I'll get her cleaned up in one of the spare bathrooms.” Geralt said and he nodded, watching as he carried her out, Samantha still pleading with them to forgive her. The tears started falling as he cleaned up the blood as best as he was able, at least until it wasn't visible. He sent a quick message to the cleaning company, saying he needed an urgent appointment, getting a confirmation that they would be there within the hour.

Geralt had tucked her into bed when he emerged from the bathroom with the bloody towels, the white wolf sitting on the edge near her, his hand moving over her hair. She had stopped crying but was now staring blankly forward as she lay on her side under the blankets.

“It's passed.” Geralt said, “She should be healed in a few days.”

“I didn't know.” She said weakly.

“We believe you.” Geralt said, wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb.

“She should still probably go to hospital.” Walter said.

“Please don't make me.”

“We won't.” Geralt said, “You don't have to if you don't want to.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” He said, leaning over to press a kiss to her temple. “Rest.” She just nodded, closing her eyes, and he got up, Walter following him out with the laundry basket. The others were in the hallway, leaning against the wall.

“Augusts’ bathroom was the closest.” Geralt said.

“You told the others?” Walter asked and August just nodded. “She didn't know she was pregnant.”

“How far along do you think she was?” Mike asked, his eyes red.

“Don't matter now.” Sy said, sniffling slightly. “And it don't matter whose it was. Now we gotta take care of her.”

“She kept begging me to forgive her, and she didn't want you all to know what happened.” Walter said.

“Why wouldn't she want us to know?” Mike asked.

“Probably scared of how we'd take it.” Sy said, “We know Johnny would take it out on her when it happened before.”

“But we're not--we’d never--”

“She just went through a trauma, Mikey, she ain't thinkin’ clearly right now.”

“We should start taking preventative measures.” Napoleon said, “She may be unable to carry to term, but she can still get pregnant and I don’t want her to go through this again.”

“Agreed.” August said, speaking up at last, a hard set to his jaw.

“Fuck it,” Sy said, “I’ll get snipped if it means this won’t happen again.”

“She keeps blaming herself.” Geralt said.

“This ain’t her fault.” Sy said, shaking his head. “It’s that fuckheads. He probably didn’t cause the first ones, but he damn well made sure they kept happenin’, on purpose or not.” Mike pushed past them, heading into the bedroom, and there was a pause before they followed him. He was laying in bed with her, holding her against his chest as she sobbed quietly.

“I love you.” He said, kept saying, and Sy went around the other side, kneeling down and reaching out, holding the side of her face and leaning in to press his forehead against hers.

Besides, at least a woman of your size wouldn't have to worry about the old men in your father's syndicate making unwanted advances. They prefer the small, petite girls that they actually have a chance of overpowering.

Still, a woman of your status was expected to marry well for your father's business. You tried, honestly you did, to get the attention of someone who would make father look good. You know better than to expect love, of course, but it would be nice to find someone who didn't immediately dismiss you when they saw you weren't wearing heels but were still eye level with them.

Honestly, the temptation to give in to the men who wanted you to step on them was getting harder and harder to fight. They'd promise you money, jewelry, custom made clothing and lingerie, just let them use your body how they wanted. All the while they made it clear you would just be a sex toy to them, not a person. You know love isn't an option but respect shouldn't be so hard to find.

It was quite the duality to have a body that was simultaneously seen as "unfit" and also fetishized.

So it was that, when your father called you into his office to tell you there had been offer for your hand, you were surprised and nervous.

"He's a former federal agent who helped our family get through some dicey times," Father explains. "He's out of the legit game, early retirement or whatever. But he's willing to continue helping us out with his connections so long as he gets you."

"I understand, Father," you nod. "Though I'm surprised you trust him enough. He betrayed his agency, why wouldn't he betray the family?"

"That's another reason I'm giving you to him. I trust you and I know where your loyalties lie."

"We'll probably have to come up with some new phrases," you nod.

"That's my girl," Father smiles. "He's asked you to meet him at your future home. Says he wants to get your opinion on things so he can get things renovated or fixed up before the wedding."

"That's...quite considerate of him," you blink. "What's his name?"

"August Walker."

The car pulls up to the townhouse you'll be moving into after the wedding. The exterior is quite plain but, if Mr. Walker can be expected to keep his word, you'll have a say in changing that.

When your car door opens, you're surprised to be greeted by your future husband, offering his hand to help you out of your seat.

"Thank you," you smile softly as you take his hand.

Stepping out of the car, you make sure to not put too much of your weight onto him, forever mindful that many cannot handle your size. But there is a strength in his arm that makes you wonder if he could.

Mr. Walker kisses the back of your hand and your cheeks heat up, unused to such gentlemanly behavior.

"I know this isn't a mansion or a penthouse, but I do hope the townhouse will be sufficient for you," he smiles. "Especially after all of your requested changes are made. I've got Mr. Carter, a local construction supervisor whom I trust, and who your father recommended, already inside, ready to take notes."

"Thank you, Mr. Walker."

"August, please. We will be married after all, and I would prefer my wife call me by my first name."

"I understand," you nod.

His lip twitches and you're not sure if it's in amusement or annoyance.

"Shall we?" he gestures to the front door.

"Please."

When you're inside, it's clear the townhouse is an older construction and you feel a slight thrill. You admire the custom work done that have withstood time. The contemporary style of everything being sleek, shiny and white has never appealed to you. Testing the waters of your fiance's promises to listen to you, you make sure to state aloud the fixtures you'd like to keep. You're pleased to not hear any arguments from Walker on the matter.

As the tour continues, you grow bolder, asking about replacing things that can't be kept with something similar in terms of style. Mr. Carter says he knows a very good woodworker who can provide some estimates and you find yourself smiling.

Every so often you catch a glimpse of Walker and you swear he's smiling more as you're going on.

"And now, for the final part of the tour," Walker takes your hand again, "the main reason I sought this house."

When he opens the final door you enter into a two-story tall library, making you gasp. You almost feel like Belle from Beauty and the Beast.

"The shelves are empty, waiting for the books you currently own and, hopefully, there will be enough room for future books you should seek to purchase," August informs you. "My own books will remain in my office and this will entire library will be yours."

"August..." you whisper.

"I have seen other men attempt to woo you with gold and riches," he explains. "But you are no Atalanta, distracted by shiny things. You are a woman who craves intelligence more than money or power. Our lives are not given to expectations of love, but having a wife I can respect? That's a very good start, in my book."

You beam at him, almost teary eyed, "and having a husband who can genuinely make me smile is far more than I could have ever expected. Thank you, August."

Besides, at least a woman of your size wouldn't have to worry about the old men in your father's syndicate making unwanted advances. They prefer the small, petite girls that they actually have a chance of overpowering.

Still, a woman of your status was expected to marry well for your father's business. You tried, honestly you did, to get the attention of someone who would make father look good. You know better than to expect love, of course, but it would be nice to find someone who didn't immediately dismiss you when they saw you weren't wearing heels but were still eye level with them.

Honestly, the temptation to give in to the men who wanted you to step on them was getting harder and harder to fight. They'd promise you money, jewelry, custom made clothing and lingerie, just let them use your body how they wanted. All the while they made it clear you would just be a sex toy to them, not a person. You know love isn't an option but respect shouldn't be so hard to find.

It was quite the duality to have a body that was simultaneously seen as "unfit" and also fetishized.

So it was that, when your father called you into his office to tell you there had been offer for your hand, you were surprised and nervous.

"He's a former federal agent who helped our family get through some dicey times," Father explains. "He's out of the legit game, early retirement or whatever. But he's willing to continue helping us out with his connections so long as he gets you."

"I understand, Father," you nod. "Though I'm surprised you trust him enough. He betrayed his agency, why wouldn't he betray the family?"

"That's another reason I'm giving you to him. I trust you and I know where your loyalties lie."

"We'll probably have to come up with some new phrases," you nod.

"That's my girl," Father smiles. "He's asked you to meet him at your future home. Says he wants to get your opinion on things so he can get things renovated or fixed up before the wedding."

"That's...quite considerate of him," you blink. "What's his name?"

"August Walker."

The car pulls up to the townhouse you'll be moving into after the wedding. The exterior is quite plain but, if Mr. Walker can be expected to keep his word, you'll have a say in changing that.

When your car door opens, you're surprised to be greeted by your future husband, offering his hand to help you out of your seat.

"Thank you," you smile softly as you take his hand.

Stepping out of the car, you make sure to not put too much of your weight onto him, forever mindful that many cannot handle your size. But there is a strength in his arm that makes you wonder if he could.

Mr. Walker kisses the back of your hand and your cheeks heat up, unused to such gentlemanly behavior.

"I know this isn't a mansion or a penthouse, but I do hope the townhouse will be sufficient for you," he smiles. "Especially after all of your requested changes are made. I've got Mr. Carter, a local construction supervisor whom I trust, and who your father recommended, already inside, ready to take notes."

"Thank you, Mr. Walker."

"August, please. We will be married after all, and I would prefer my wife call me by my first name."

"I understand," you nod.

His lip twitches and you're not sure if it's in amusement or annoyance.

"Shall we?" he gestures to the front door.

"Please."

When you're inside, it's clear the townhouse is an older construction and you feel a slight thrill. You admire the custom work done that have withstood time. The contemporary style of everything being sleek, shiny and white has never appealed to you. Testing the waters of your fiance's promises to listen to you, you make sure to state aloud the fixtures you'd like to keep. You're pleased to not hear any arguments from Walker on the matter.

As the tour continues, you grow bolder, asking about replacing things that can't be kept with something similar in terms of style. Mr. Carter says he knows a very good woodworker who can provide some estimates and you find yourself smiling.

Every so often you catch a glimpse of Walker and you swear he's smiling more as you're going on.

"And now, for the final part of the tour," Walker takes your hand again, "the main reason I sought this house."

When he opens the final door you enter into a two-story tall library, making you gasp. You almost feel like Belle from Beauty and the Beast.

"The shelves are empty, waiting for the books you currently own and, hopefully, there will be enough room for future books you should seek to purchase," August informs you. "My own books will remain in my office and this will entire library will be yours."

"August..." you whisper.

"I have seen other men attempt to woo you with gold and riches," he explains. "But you are no Atalanta, distracted by shiny things. You are a woman who craves intelligence more than money or power. Our lives are not given to expectations of love, but having a wife I can respect? That's a very good start, in my book."

You beam at him, almost teary eyed, "and having a husband who can genuinely make me smile is far more than I could have ever expected. Thank you, August."

Despite the surprise, Liam politely refrained from pushing Olivia away. He simply did not return her kiss.

“Lady Olivia,” he said softly, “please come outside to meet me a moment later.”

“It would be my honor.” Olivia smiled, curtsying to Liam as the dance ended. The Prince bowed in return.

The other nobles were forming pairs and heading to the dance floor for the next dance, while Liam swiftly departed. He glanced for Sofia in the crowd, and quickly spotted her standing quietly beside Maxwell, her gaze distant, not searching for him as usual. Just like this morning during the skiing trip, Sofia hadn't even glanced at him while he skied with Olivia. It was unclear how she felt about him having to reciprocate the affections of other ladies. It bothered him.

Olivia accompanied him out of the ballroom and they went to another room.

“Leave us.” Liam said to the guards, and they withdrew.

When they were alone, Olivia was about to approach Liam, but the Prince still turned his back to her. He seemed intently gazing at a painting on the wall.

“Oh, this is a portrait of you, Olivia.”

“Yes,” Olivia replied. “It was painted when I first became Duchess of Lythikos.”

Liam nodded.

“You were very young when you took on such a great responsibility, but you did well. Lythikos is thriving and contributing the most to the national budget in terms of tourism.”

“You’re too kind, Your Highness.” The Duchess returned the praise, but it wasn't what she expected to be recognized.

“Liam, you wanted me out here because of the kiss, didn't you?”

“That's right.” Liam turned to look at her. “I was quite surprised you took the initiative. Would you like to explain why?”

Olivia's cheeks flushed.

“Because… I wanted you to notice me.”

“I don't think I didn't.” Liam raised an eyebrow. “You're the hostess and the one in charge of everything here. I'm genuinely impressed by what you've done and I commend you.”

“That's not what I meant, Liam.” Olivia's voice was somewhat impatient. “In a romantic way. The other ladies, some of them, are clearly trying to get your attention. Even though they're just my guests, like you are.”

Such a statement would be considered an insult to the Royal Family, but Liam understood Olivia's nature, so he gently replied,

“That's permissible, Olivia. Almost every lady during the social season wants my attention.”

“But… you're paying more attention to some than others.”

The words escaped Olivia's lips like a reproach. Liam realized that his interest in Sofia seemed to appear more obvious in the court.

“Perhaps so? I'll try to be fairer.” said Liam “But in the end, I will have to choose one lady to be my bride. Will you trust my judgment and choices?”

“I… I've never doubted you.”

“Thank you, Olivia.” Liam smiled “You always support me like a family member. Are you feeling more at ease now?”

Olivia hesitated for a moment, then quietly nodded.

“Good, then shall we return to the party? I don't want the guests wondering where the mistress has gone.”

“They have no right to question me.” Olivia replied proudly.

Liam chuckled:

“So many years have passed, and you're still the same, General.”

“Aye. Thank you, Captain.”

Bianca lay beneath the heavy patchwork quilt, her face entirely peaceful, the sharp lines of pain permanently smoothed away into a profound, terrifying stillness. Beside her, Drake sat motionless in a heavy wooden chair he had dragged from the corner of the room, positioning it close to the mattress so he could remain within arm's reach. His massive frame was completely slouched, his broad shoulders sunken forward under the invisible weight of the atmosphere. His eyes, heavily bloodshot and rimmed with dark, shadowed hollows, were vacant—fixed in a glassy, unblinking stare on his mother’s pale, lifeless features.

Downstairs, the house was buried in an oppressive silence. His friends, his brothers in every way that mattered, kept a quiet, heavy vigil in the living room below, the absence of their voices almost echoing through the floorboards like a physical pressure.

In the corner of the bedroom, Leona stood in the shadows, speaking in hushed, fragmented whispers to the doctor. The physician, an elderly man whose hair had gone grey in the service of the village, had conducted his examination with a quiet, practiced solemnity. Turning to the small vanity table, the sharp, rhythmic scratch of his fountain pen punctured the silence of the room, a cold, clinical sound that grated against Drake’s raw nerves.

With a soft, final murmur of condolence to Leona, the doctor walked back over to the bedside, holding out a crisp, folded piece of paper.

Drake’s calloused hand moved automatically, his fingers closing around the document.

“I'm sorry, Drake,” the doctor whispered, offering a grave nod. "She was a good woman. She'll be sorely missed." He smiled sadly at the younger man, resting his wrinkled hand against Drake's shoulder, before slipping out of the room, his heavy footsteps retreating down the creaking staircase.

Drake remained frozen, his knuckles turning white as his grip tightened on the paper, causing it to crinkle loudly in the quiet room. Slowly, agonisingly, he forced his eyes down to the document in his hand. The black ink was fresh, the elegant, loopy cursive of the physician stark against the harsh white background of the Medical Certificate.

A sudden, violent wave of nausea surged through his stomach, followed by a profound, freezing shock that made his entire body tremble. His eyes tracked down to the handwriting under Cause of Death, reading the cold, clinical finality of the diagnosis:

1a. Cardio-Respiratory failure

1b. Tertiary Neurosyphilis

The words hit Drake like a physical blow to the sternum, knocking the remaining air from his lungs. The room seemed to tilt. The bitter, suffocating scent of antiseptic and stale medicine suddenly felt overwhelming, burning the back of his throat.

He stared at the second line. His mind, completely sluggish and suffocated by grief, rejected it. Neurosyphilis. The word felt heavy, ugly, and entirely foreign. It belonged in text-books, or whispered maliciously in the shadows of the city's red-light districts. It didn't belong here. It didn't belong on a document bearing the name of Bianca Walker.

"What is this?" Drake’s voice broke the silence, a low, raspy gravel that sounded completely unrecognisable. He didn't look up from the paper. His chest began to hitch, his breathing turning shallow and erratic. "Leona... what did he write here? This is a mistake. He’s got the wrong chart. He’s bloody old, he’s made a mistake."

He snapped his head up, his vision blurred by hot, panicked tears. He was looking for reassurance, looking for Leona to tell him the doctor was senile.

But Leona was looking right back at him, her chest heaving as fresh tears spilled over her lashes. She didn't look surprised. She looked utterly broken, her shoulders trembling under her shawl. There were no secrets left in the room. She had known Bianca since they were girls; she knew the horror written on the paper in his fist, and she knew exactly where it had come from.

"It's not a mistake, Drake," Leona whispered, her voice cracking into a jagged sob. She took two trembling steps toward him, reaching out a shaking, maternal hand to touch his rigid shoulder.

"No," Drake growled, his whole body violently flinching away from her touch. The denial was a desperate, clawing thing in his chest. "No, look at it! It’s an infection. A blood disease. My mum was a good woman, Leona! She was a seamstress, she worked the shops, she—"

"Drake, listen to me," Leona choked out, gripping his shoulder harder, forcing him to look at her through his blinding tears. "She didn't know. No one did. It slept in her blood all these years. It was completely silent... hidden. The penicillin she had for her chest last winter, it helped mask it. It kept it at bay for a while. Until a few weeks ago when the tremors started in her hands. By then... the doctor said it was already too late. The damage was done. It had already taken hold of her mind, her nerves..."

Slept in her blood all these years.

The phrase hung in the damp air of the bedroom, and suddenly, the fragile dam of Drake's denial fractured entirely. The world didn't just tilt; it completely shattered beneath his feet.

A sudden, vivid, and terrifying rush of memory broke through the numbness, violently dragging him back into the dark winter nights of his childhood.

He could hear it now with a horrifying, crystal clarity: the faint, metallic click of the front door opening in the dead of a freezing winter night. He remembered lying awake beneath his blankets, clutching them to his chin, listening to his mother slipping back into the dark house in the early hours of the morning. From the kitchen, the muffled, heartbreaking sound of her weeping would drift up the stairs, followed by the frantic, obsessive sound of scrubbing.

He remembered the mornings after—the sight of her nursing a bruised eye or a split lip, desperately scrub-washing the dirt and the crushing shame off her skin at the kitchen sink with harsh lye soap, before turning around to greet him with a forced, beautiful smile and a warm bowl of porridge.

The math of poverty. The debts after Jackson took a bullet for Queen Eleanor. The absolute, cruel neglect of the Cordonian crown that had left a protector's widow to rot. To keep a roof over her son's head, Bianca had turned to the only currency she had left, selling her own body on those freezing street corners in the towns a few miles away.

Neurosyphilis.

The clinical word finally connected to the memory of her confession when he was eighteen, when Drake had finally demanded the truth.

He remembered the smell of dust that day as she handed over his dad's belongings—journals, a ring, and an old watch—her voice trembling as she finally laid bare the reality of Jackson's death and how the desperate, countrywide riots had ultimately claimed him. But the history of Cordonia's collapse wasn't what had made Drake's stomach turn; it was the unspoken spaces between her words. He had looked at her, his suspicion finally hardening into the devastating question of what she had really done on those freezing winter nights while he slept.

When the secrets finally spilled out, her voice had broken completely as the old shame burned hot in her soul. He had pulled her into his arms, holding her small, shaking frame close to his chest, telling her she had nothing to be ashamed of, that she did what she had to do to keep them alive.

"It's okay, Mum," he had whispered into her hair, his own tears blinding him. “You were strong. You did what you had to do to keep us alive. You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of."

But he had never realised... she hadn't just sacrificed her dignity. She had contracted a death sentence. The men who had bought her flesh had left a poison in her veins that had quietly, systematically eaten away at her central nervous system for fifteen years while she smiled, baked bread, and loved him fiercely.

As far as Drake was concerned, the blame didn't belong to her. It never had. The blame lay entirely with the monsters who had refused to pay a dead protector's widow. The blame, Drake knew with a white-hot clarity, lay with the Cordonian nobility.

With Constantine. Emilia’s father.

Back in the present, the paper crinkled violently as Drake’s massive fist clenched, crushing the medical certificate into a tight, mangled ball. His chest began to heave in heavy, ragged gasps, the protective wall of numbness completely obliterated by a raw, agonising fury that roared through his veins like wildfire.

The grief was no longer sorrow; it was an incandescent, dangerous rage at the universe, at the crown, and at the systematic cruelty that had literally poisoned his mother's blood while King Constantine sat on a golden throne.

"They killed her," Drake whispered, the words vibrating with pure, unadulterated hatred. He stared at his mother’s peaceful face, his teeth grinding so hard his jaw ached. "Constantine killed her. The nobility killed her."

Leona squeezed his shoulder, her own tears soaking her cheeks. "Drake, please..."

"No!" Drake roared, the sound tearing from his throat, loud and violent enough to rattle the glass in the windowpanes. He ripped himself away from her grip, surging to his feet. His massive frame towered in the tight, low-ceilinged bedroom, his chest heaving like a wounded beast. He raised his clenched, white-knuckled fist—the crushed death certificate mangled inside it—and slammed it down against the heavy wooden post of the bed.

The timber groaned under the impact, but Drake didn't feel the pain in his knuckles. His vision was a blurred, vibrating smear of pure, red hatred.

"I'll kill him," Drake choked out, his voice thick with a lethal, trembling venom. He shook his head, his teeth grinding as the words forced their way past his lips. His eyes glared at the wall as if he could see right through the miles of stone and mist, straight to the palace in the capital. "First he banishes me from my home, he forces me away from my family, my friends. He rips me away from the only woman I have ever loved, leaves me to rot in exile... and now this?! If I ever see him again... if I ever cross paths with that bastard, I will rip him apart with my bare hands. I don't care about his guard. I don’t care about his fucking title! I’ll choke the life out of him, Leona. I swear to God, I will!" He was breathing in short, ragged gasps, his entire body wound tight as a coiled spring, ready to tear the world down to avenge the woman lying in the bed.

"And then what, Drake?!" Leona cried out, her voice cracking as she stepped directly into his path, forcing herself between his towering frame and the door. She grabbed the collar of his shirt, her fingers dug deep into the fabric, her face pale and streaked with terrified tears.

"You'll kill the King? You'll attack the guard?" she shook him, her small frame straining against his weight. "Look at her, Drake! Look at your mother! Why do you think she did it? Why did she stand on those freezing street corners? Why did she take the bruises, the filth, the absolute ruin of her own soul? She did it so you would live! She traded everything she had so a commoner's boy from Ramada could have a future. If you throw your life away for revenge—if you end up behind bars or swinging from a hangman's noose—then it was all for nothing! You will have murdered the only thing she managed to save!"

The words hit Drake like a bucket of freezing water.

He froze, his raised fist remaining suspended in the air. You will have murdered the only thing she managed to save.

He looked down at Leona’s desperate, weeping face, and then slowly, dreadfully, his gaze drifted back to his mother’s peaceful features beneath the patchwork quilt. The silence of the room rushed back in, heavy and absolute, suffocating him.

The fight drained out of him all at once. His shoulders suddenly sagged, the rigid, lethal tension evaporating from his muscles, leaving his limbs feeling weak and heavy as lead. The blinding, incandescent rage collapsed inward, imploding under a devastating, structural wave of absolute guilt. The fury was gone, leaving behind a cold, hollow vacuum that threatened to stop his own heart.

He didn't answer her. He couldn't.

Drake dropped heavily back into the wooden chair, his knees buckling beneath him. He buried his face in his hands, pressing the crushed, ruined certificate hard against his forehead, his massive frame shaking violently with silent, gasping sobs. The realisation broke him entirely, tearing through his soul until he felt like he was physically suffocating.

His mother had traded her physical body, her health, her sanity, and ultimately her very life to buy him a future. He wasn't just a grieving son. He was the boy she had ruined herself to save. And now, he was the man left standing alone, suffocating in the wreckage of her ultimate sacrifice.

*****

During the days that followed Biancas death, time lost all its shape. Hours dragged, thick and suffocating, like a heavy winter fog that refused to lift from the hollow.

The small house in Ramada became a tomb of static air and echoing floorboards. Every room was haunted by the sudden, violent absence of Bianca’s presence. The kitchen counter felt too clean, free of the crumbs left behind by her baking; the sewing basket in the corner sat under a layer of settling dust, the silver needles still threaded with a spool of dark blue cotton she would never finish.

For Drake, the world lost its colour entirely, bleeding out into a monochrome of slate-grey skies and relentless, freezing spring rain. He moved on an agonising autopilot. He had no memory of the undertakers arriving, nor of the quiet, hollow space left behind when they carried his mother's body out of the house. He only remembered the silence that settled into the floorboards afterward—a heavy, suffocating pressure that even his friends couldn't quiet.

They never left his side. Leo and Max moved through the rooms like silent shadows, managing the reality of a world Drake had completely unplugged from. When Leona had gently asked him what Bianca should wear to be laid to rest, Drake had only been able to choke out three words: the floral dress. It had been her absolute favourite, a vibrant splash of colour that she always wore with pride. Instantly, Drake's mind shifted back to the last time he had seen her in it. It had been that warm summer’s day at Applewood, when she had joined him, Eleanor, and Emilia for lunch in the sun-drenched rose gardens. He remembered the vivid patterns of the dress against the blooming flowers—a moment where he had felt happier than he ever had in his life, with his mother and Emilia, the love of his life, right by his side.

Now, the dress hung limp and hollow, a mocking reminder of a warmth that had been systematically stripped away.

His heart ached with a physical, bruising intensity at the thought of that perfect afternoon. Now, trapped in the grim, monochrome reality of his grief, the thought of Emilia was the only thing keeping his head above water. He caught himself wishing for her with every ragged breath he took, craving the phantom weight of her hands holding him, the soft assurance of her voice telling him that the storm would pass. She would give him the strength he needed when the weight in his chest made him feel like he was drowning.

Driven by that desperate need to reach her, he kept writing. Every single day of that agonising week, his clumsy, shaking fingers forced ink onto paper. In those pages, he laid himself completely bare. He didn't write to her with any grand, poetic words; he wrote to her as a drowning man. He laid his soul entirely bare on those pages, spilling the raw, bleeding truth of his mother’s death, the horrific weight of the diagnosis, and the suffocating guilt that was currently crushing the air from his lungs. He told her how much he loved her, how desperately he wished she were standing there with him.

I need you, the ink pleaded between the lines. You are the only light I have left in the dark.

Every afternoon, he would fold the paper, seal it with trembling hands, and give it to Leona to take down to the village post-box.

And every morning, the torment renewed itself. Drake would stand by the glass, his breath fogging the windowpane, praying for a flash of white parchment, a familiar seal, a single line written in her elegant script to break the nightmare. But day after day, the postman passed the gate without stopping. The letters went completely unanswered, leaving a vast, hollow silence where her voice should have been. The absolute lack of an answer—the complete, echoing silence from the woman he loved more than life itself—left him feeling entirely discarded. It was as if he had already been erased from her world, left to drown alone in the dirt of the village.

*****

By the time Friday morning arrived, the rain had finally tapered off into a thick, damp mountain mist that clung to the hedges and slicked the stone path outside.

Inside, the small house was a hive of quiet, sombre preparation. Drake stood in front of the small mirror in the narrow hallway, the air around him smelling of damp wood, old stone, and the sharp tang of shoe polish. His fingers felt entirely detached from his body, clumsy and stiff as ice as he tried to force the plastic button of his white shirt through the frayed loop. His reflection was a stranger’s—his jawline looked hollowed out, the sharp cheekbones cutting beneath skin that had gone a sickly, sleepless grey, and his bloodshot eyes were sunken into deep, violet shadows.

He tried again, but his calloused fingers slipped off the fabric. A sudden, sharp prickle of suffocating frustration flared beneath his collar, tightening around his throat until he could barely breathe. He felt entirely unravelled, a giant of a man reduced to useless trembling by a single piece of plastic.

Through the blurred reflection in the glass, he saw Max and Leo standing at the end of the hallway. They looked just as exhausted, dressed in their own dark, mismatched funeral coats. Leo, who had walked beside Drake since the days of nursery school mud-fights, stepped forward first. Without a word, he reached out, his hand squeezing Drake’s forearm with a crushing, desperate grip—an unspoken language built over a lifetime of shared history. Next to him, Max, who had entered Drake's world as a rowdy teenager and quickly became a brother, leaned in, resting a heavy, grounding palm against Drake’s shoulder blade, leaning his forehead briefly against Drake’s back. They didn’t say anything. They didn't need to. They were simply there, an unbreakable wall of childhood loyalty holding back the dark.

Seeing them there brought a sudden, flickering memory of earlier in the week—a quiet conversation in the dead of night, out by the woodpile in the small back garden.

Drake had pulled Zeke aside, the cold wind whipping at their faces. Zeke had risked everything to help Drake sneak across the Cordonian border from France, and Drake had felt the crushing weight of that debt.

“You should go back, Zeke,” Drake had told him, his voice rough, eyes fixed on the dirt. “What about the farm? You can’t leave it untended. Leo can drive me back after the funeral.”

Zeke had merely let out a soft huff, a plume of white steam rising in the cold air. “Kiara can handle the farm, Drake.” He had stepped closer, clasping a firm hand onto Drake’s neck, forcing him to look up. “Some things are more important than crops. I’m not leaving you to bury your mother alone. I’m staying.”

Drake hadn’t pushed further, too exhausted to notice the tight, strained lines around Zeke's eyes. He didn't know the full truth. Zeke hadn't told him about the arguments back in France, or the way Kiara’s infatuation had twisted into an increasingly aggressive, possessive fixation. Zeke knew Drake’s heart belonged entirely to Emilia, and he had seen the warning signs. He knew that if he crossed back over the border now, Kiara would demand to return to Cordonian soil with him. And as far as Zeke was concerned, while Drake was this raw and vulnerable, the absolute further away Kiara stayed, the better.

So he had stayed, quietly handling the heavy chores in the background all week, acting as a shield Drake didn't even know he needed—proving that true brotherhood knew no borders.

Back in the present, the memory faded as the floorboards creaked. Max and Leo parted, stepping back into the shadows of the sitting room as a larger figure approached.

"Let me," Bastien's rough, low voice sounded from the shadows behind him.

The older man stepped into the cramped hallway space, bringing with him the faint, comforting scent of cedar, wool, and mothballs. With steady, practiced hands that didn't share Drake's tremors, Bastien reached up. His weathered fingers, rough from decades of hard manual labour, brushed gently against the rigid line of Drake's jaw as he effortlessly threaded the stubborn button.

Bastien didn't offer empty, hollow platitudes; he knew there were no words in the language of men that could fix a broken heart. Instead, he carefully smoothed down the heavy lapels of Drake’s black coat, pressing out the creases with deliberate, grounding care, before resting his massive, calloused palms flat against the trembling expanse of Drake's chest.

"Listen to me, son," Bastien murmured, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to anchor the shifting room. "Today is going to be the hardest walk of your life. We are saying goodbye to her body today, yes. But Bianca? She is never truly gone from you."

Slowly, Bastien raised a heavy hand, tapping his fingers gently against Drake's shirt, right over the erratic, heavy thudding of his heart. "She's in here." Then, he moved his fingers up, pressing them against Drake's temple with a soft, meaningful pressure that demanded his absolute focus. "And she's in here. In your memories. The people we love fiercely... we carry them with us through the dark, every single day. The world can never truly take that away from you. Make her proud today, son."

The words struck the fragile dam Drake had built against the world. His eyes instantly welled, a hot, blinding sheen of tears spilling over his lower lashes. The tight, suffocating knot that had been strangling him all morning loosened just enough for him to manage a small, heartbreakingly sad smile.

He gave a tight, rough nod, his vision blurring entirely as he stepped forward and threw his large arms around Bastien, burying his face against the older man's shoulder.

He pulled him into a fierce, desperate hug, clinging to him like a man falling off the edge of the earth. Bastien returned it instantly, his own grip tight, unyielding, and fierce, locking around Drake's massive frame to hold him together. In the quiet, narrow hallway, surrounded by the shadows of his oldest friends, Drake let himself lean entirely into the silent, anchoring strength of a father—the one piece of solid ground left when the world had stripped everything else away.

*****

The transition from the cramped, quiet sanctuary of the hallway to the reality waiting outside was a blur of cold air and heavy, synchronised movement. When Drake finally detached himself from Bastien's embrace, his limbs felt like lead, operating entirely on the lingering echoes of autopilot. With Max and Leo flanking him like shields against the world, and Bastien’s steady hand resting firmly between his shoulder blades, Drake stepped out of the small house in Ramada.

The thick, damp mountain mist they had watched from the window did not break; it swallowed them whole. It hung low and heavy over the valley, clinging to the thorny hedges and slicking the ancient stone path that led down toward the village. The walk was silent, save for the rhythmic, wet crunch of their boots against the gravel and the distant, mournful tolling of the parish bell echoing through the fog. By the time the dark, weathered stone walls of the village church materialised through the mist, the dampness had seeped into the shoulders of Drake's coat, a freezing weight that mirrored the chill settling deep into his bones.

But when the heavy oak doors groaned open, the cold mist was instantly cut by a wall of oppressive warmth.

Inside, the air was thick, heavy, and suffocating, dense with the oily scent of melting beeswax, the musk of damp wool from packed pews, and the sweet, almost sickeningly sharp perfume of spring lilies. It was the smell of death wrapped in respect, a clean, sanitized tribute that made Drake’s stomach actively turn.

The small parish was packed to the absolute doors. Friends, neighbours, and old tradesmen from the village lined the pews, their bodies pressed shoulder-to-shoulder. A low, reverent hum of hushed whispers vibrated through the ancient timber rafters, dropping into an absolute, breathless silence the moment Drake’s large frame darkened the doorway. There wasn't an empty space left. For a community that had watched Bianca fight through the harshest years of her life after Jacksons death, this was their final, quiet tribute to a woman who had been a pillar of silent resilience among them.

But for Drake, at the threshold the crowd vanished. The world shrank entirely to the size of a polished oak box resting on the shoulders of the men before him.

When the weight of the casket settled onto Drake’s broad, muscular shoulder, the sheer, physical reality of it nearly brought him to his knees. A choked gasp caught in his throat. It wasn't just wood and brass pressing into his muscle; it was the absolute, crushing finality of a world without her. To his right, Bastien shifted his weight, his jaw set like weathered iron as he took his share of the burden. Behind them, Leo and Max stepped into place, their grips steady, unyielding, and familiar. They were his brothers in every way that mattered, physically anchoring his massive frame because they knew that without them, the sheer gravity of his grief would collapse him into the flagstones.

As they took their first collective step forward, the organ swelled. It wasn't just music—it was a deep, mournful minor chord that vibrated violently through the floorboards, tearing through the soles of Drake's boots and striking straight into his sternum. The sound seemed to split his chest wide open, exposing everything raw inside.

Hold your head up.

Bastien’s earlier words echoed in the hollow space of his mind, but his head felt heavy as lead. His mother was gone. The thought was a jagged, bleeding wound. She had been his anchor, his north star, the one unshakeable certainty in a life defined by hardship. Aside from Emilia, Bianca was his entire world—the only person who loved him unconditionally, who had held him when he was a boy in mismatched boots, and who had quietly bled for him so he could survive. And now, the absolute emptiness of her absence was a physical, bruising ache behind his ribs.

Drake swallowed the suffocating lump in his throat, locked his trembling knees, and lifted his chin. He took the first step.

It felt like wading through deep, freezing mountain water. Every rhythmic step down the long, candle-lit aisle was a step closer to putting her in the cold earth forever. Through the watery, trembling blur in his vision, the sea of familiar faces turned toward them—the local baker, the seamstress, the old men from the tavern. Their eyes were wide with genuine sorrow, tracing the lines of Bianca's casket before shifting to him with immense, protective respect.

But Drake could barely process them. The candlelight danced mockingly against the dark, polished wood of the coffin, casting long, distorted shadows up the stone walls that felt as twisted as the grief tearing at his throat. His heart hammered against his ribs like a caged animal, each beat loud, hollow, and utterly broken. He wasn't just carrying his mother; he was carrying the carcass of his own childhood.

By the time they reached the altar, Drake's breath was coming in short, ragged, shallow puffs. Together, they lowered the casket onto the wooden trestles with a synchronised, heavy precision. The sudden loss of the physical weight didn't bring relief; it only made him feel dangerously weightless, as if he might break contact with the earth and float away into the gloom of the rafters.

He stepped back into the front pew, his hands clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists inside his coat pockets to keep them from shaking violently.

The parish priest, a man whose hair had gone white long after he had first known the Walker family, stepped up to the pulpit. He cleared his throat, his soft, melodic voice instantly soothing the weeping in the back rows.

"We are gathered here today not just to mourn a loss, but to celebrate a life that gave so much warmth to our community," the priest began, his eyes drifting kindly, sorrowfully to Drake. "Bianca Walker was a woman of rare, uncomplicated kindness. She possessed a heart that never knew how to close its doors. No matter how little she had, no matter how cold the winter nights grew, her home was a sanctuary. She welcomed anyone she met with open arms, a hot cup of tea, and a smile that could make the heaviest burden feel lighter. She was, in every sense, loved and respected by every soul in this village."

A soft murmur of tearful agreement rippled through the pews. Drake kept his eyes fixed on the polished handles of the coffin, his heart twisting into tighter, uglier knots.

"Anyone who knew Bianca," the priest continued, a gentle, nostalgic smile touching his weathered face, "knew that she met the absolute love of her life the day she met Jackson. Together, they didn't just build a home; they built a life rooted in mutual respect, unshakeable love, and a laughter that used to echo down these very streets. And when Jackson was cruelly, abruptly taken from us, Bianca did not crumble. She gathered up her grief and poured every ounce of that fierce, boundless love into her son."

The priest paused, looking directly at Drake now, his voice softening with immense reverence. "Drake was his mother’s pride and joy. There was nothing she wouldn't do for him. No sacrifice too great, no burden too heavy to shield her boy from the cold. She loved him fiercely, completely, until her very last breath. And today, as we return her to Jackson's side, we see her legacy standing before us—a son who carries her strength."

The words were beautiful. They were everything a grieving son should want to hear. But for Drake, each praise felt like a stunning, silver blade sliding between his ribs.

The bittersweet irony of it nearly choked him. The village loved her for her grace and hospitality. They thought of her sacrifices in terms of long hours at legal jobs and worn-out shoes. They didn't know the dark costs of the winter nights. They didn't know about the bruised eyes, the split lips, or the crushing shame she had scrubbed from her skin at the kitchen sink while the rest of the world slept. They didn't know that the crown's neglect had forced a good woman to trade her soul to keep her son alive.

Beside him, Drake felt a small, trembling hand slide across his knuckles, fingers wrapping around his tightly clenched fist.

Drake didn't turn his head, but his grip loosened just enough to let her in. Leona was sitting right there, her shoulder pressed firmly against his. Her chest heaved with silent, breathless sobs, but her grip on his hand was fierce, unyielding, and heavy with a lifetime of shared history. They were the only two people in the crowded church who knew the real price of the bread he had eaten as a boy.

As the priest spoke of Bianca's unshakeable strength, Leona squeezed his fingers—a silent, grounding pressure that spoke volumes. I am here, the gesture promised. You’re not alone. It was the exact same fierce, protective devotion she had given his mother, now transferred entirely to the boy Bianca had ruined herself to save.

When the priest finished, he stepped down, leaving a heavy, expectant silence hanging over the altar. The liturgy called for a remembrance from the family.

Drake felt Bastien’s hand lightly touch his shoulder from behind, a gentle nudge. His knees felt hollow, but he stood up. The movement was slow, his large frame rising like a shadow against the candlelight. The entire church seemed to hold its breath as he walked the few steps to the front, avoiding the pulpit entirely, choosing instead to stand right beside the dark oak of his mother's casket.

He rested one massive, trembling hand on the top of the wood. For a long, agonising moment, he couldn't speak. He stared out at the sea of faces, his throat completely locked, his chest heaving as he fought for air.

"My mother..." Drake's voice broke on the first syllable, rough and gravelly, cutting through the silence like tearing cloth. He swallowed hard, his jaw clenching until the bone clicked. "She didn't have an easy life. Most of you know that. You knew her after my father died. You knew her when the winters were long."

He looked down at the coffin, his calloused thumb tracing the grain of the oak. He couldn't tell them the truth. He couldn't shatter the beautiful, clean memory they had of her. But he needed the universe to know the depth of what she had endured.

"She took the cold so I could have the warmth," Drake whispered, his voice shaking but carrying a sudden, fierce intensity that echoed off the stone walls. "She took every blow the world threw at her, and she never let it touch me. She broke herself to pieces so I could grow up whole. She was... she was the strongest person I will ever know."

His eyes drifted across the front pew, catching Leona’s tear-stained face. A silent, bleeding understanding passed between them.

"I just hope..." Drake's voice cracked, a hot, blinding sheen of tears finally spilling over his lower lashes, tracing a slow path down his hollowed cheek. "I just hope I can carry a fraction of her strength. Because she gave everything she was for me. Everything."

He didn't wipe the tear away. He didn't say another word. He simply leaned down, pressed his forehead briefly against the cold wood of the casket, and stepped back.

When he returned to the pew, he sat heavily, leaning imperceptibly into Leona's side. She instantly found his hand again, locking her fingers through his with a devastating, protective intensity that the peaceful people in the pews would never fully understand.

*****

The final chords of the organ faded into the ancient timber rafters, leaving only the sound of the rain returning with a vengeance, lashing violently against the stained-glass windows.

The walk from the church to the graveyard was a grim, slow-motion blur of black umbrellas and sodden earth. Drake stood at the very edge of the open plot, the freezing Cordonian wind whipping the tail of his coat against his shins as the thick ropes groaned under the strain, slowly lowering the polished oak casket into the dark, wet clay. When it hit the bottom, the sound was hollow, wet, and terribly definitive. Drake watched the first heavy shovel of earth thud onto the lid. Each subsequent mound of dirt felt like a physical blow to his own chest, the final door slamming shut on his childhood forever.

He didn't remember walking away from the graveside. He only knew that the damp, biting cold had settled deep into his marrow by the time they reached the King’s Arms, the village’s lone, weathering tavern.

The landlord, an old friend of Jackson’s whose hands were permanently calloused from decades of pulling pints and clearing fields, had closed the heavy oak doors to the public for the afternoon. A massive, roaring fire crackled fiercely in the hearth, throwing a thick, amber glow over the low timber beams and the worn flagstone floor, but the intense heat couldn't touch the block of ice wedged inside Drake’s chest. The air smelled heavy and comforting—a mixture of woodsmoke, spilled ale, wet wool, and the rich, savoury scent of venison and potato stew the village women had brought to line the long wooden tables.

The pub was packed to the absolute rafters. It was loud—a strange, overwhelming wall of sensory sound made of clinking glasses, blowing noses, and the low, collective rumble of dozens of voices sharing decades of memories.

Standing like a statue near the hearth, Drake was not alone. Leo, Max, and Zeke formed a tight, unbreakable semi-circle around him, acting as silent, protective sentinels to keep the well-wishers from completely suffocating him. They took the brunt of the crowd’s physical weight. Leo stood on his left, greeting the elders with a quiet, respectful familiarity. Max flanked his right, his shoulders subtly shifting to block anyone trying to crowd Drake too closely, while Zeke stood shoulder-to-shoulder with them, his quiet, vigilant presence a steady anchor as he helped accept the condolences of people whose dialect he barely understood.

One by one, the villagers pressed into the small pocket of space his friends managed to preserve.

"She was a saint, Drake," the local blacksmith murmured, leaning past Max to press a heavy, rough hand to Drake’s forearm. "When my girl had the croup winter before last, your mum walked three miles through the mountain drifts just to bring us a batch of her elderberry syrup. Never asked for a penny. Not one."

"Your dad would be so proud of the man you’ve become, son," a silver-haired neighbour whispered, her eyes welling with fresh tears as she offered a tight, trembling nod. "They're back together now. Restin' easy in the quiet."

Drake managed to offer tight, mechanical nods. He forced his lips into small, heartbreakingly sad smiles that didn't reach his hollow eyes. He said thank you until the syllables completely lost their meaning, sounding entirely foreign and empty in his own ears.

Their words were a shield of pure, genuine kindness, but nothing could pierce through the thick, suffocating fog of his grief. The bittersweet irony bled into every single condolence. They spoke of Bianca’s boundless generosity, of her grace, and Jackson's nobility. They didn't know the truth. They didn't know that the very warmth they loved Bianca for was a fire she had fuelled with her own flesh and blood because the Cordonian nobility had left a guard’s widow to starve in the dirt.

Drake took a slow, heavy breath, feeling entirely detached from his own body—a ghost haunting his own mother’s wake.

"Mr. Walker?"

The voice was crisp, formal, and entirely out of place among the rough, gravelly accents of the village. It cut through the tavern's low roar like a pane of glass shattering.

Drake blinked, his vacant stare focusing on a sharp-featured man who had somehow materialised past Max and Leo. He wore an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that looked entirely too clean, too expensive, for the mud-slicked village streets of Ramada. The man held a flat cap in his leather-gloved hands, his expression grave, sharp, and intensely professional.

"I don't mean to intrude on your profound grief," the man said softly, stepping fully into the small pocket of space beside Drake. "My name is Christopher Harrison. I was your mother’s solicitor."

Drake’s brow furrowed slightly, his exhausted mind sluggishly trying to process the word. Solicitor. It didn't compute. His mother was a commoner who had scraped by on pennies, worn-out shoes, and secret, horrific torment. She didn't have legal assets. She didn't have affairs that required a man in a bespoke three-piece suit.

"I was deeply saddened to hear of her passing," Mr. Harrison continued, reaching into the breast pocket of his coat and pulling out a crisp, white business card with elegant, embossed black script. "I only knew her for a short time, but I could tell she was a remarkable woman. Before you make any arrangements to head back across the border to France, you and I need to sit down. I am the executor of her last will and testament."

Drake stared at the card held between the man's fingers. A strange, freezing prickle of unease rippled down his spine, cutting through the emotional numbness of the morning.

"Her... will?" Drake choked out, his voice rough and raspy, sounding like stones grinding together after days of near silence.

"Yes," the solicitor replied with a solemn, unreadable nod. "We have quite a bit to discuss regarding her estate and her final wishes. Please, take my card. Contact my office in the city to arrange an appointment for next week, once the dust has settled here."

Drake’s calloused, stable-hand fingers moved automatically, taking the small piece of pasteboard. The crisp, rigid edges felt incredibly sharp against his rough skin.

"I'll be there," Drake managed, giving a tight, hard nod.

"My deepest condolences, Drake," Mr. Harrison said quietly. He gave a respectful, practiced bow of his head, turned on his heel, and quietly slipped out of the crowded tavern, leaving the heavy oak doors to click shut behind him.

Drake stood absolutely frozen, staring down at the card in his palm. The embossed letters caught the amber light of the hearth fire: Harrison & Associates. The Royal Mile, City of Valen.

The Royal Mile. The most exclusive, heavily guarded legal district in the capital city, serving only the wealthy, the high nobility and the royal court itself.

Drake slowly slipped the card into his coat pocket, his fist clenching around it through the heavy fabric until his knuckles ached. The roar of the pub seemed to fade into a completely dull, distant hum, the warmth of the fire fading away. As he looked back up toward the flames, the grief in his chest suddenly shifted, tightening into a hard, cold, and dangerous knot of profound confusion.

Bianca Walker hadn't just left behind a legacy of survival; she had left behind something else entirely.

Bianca lay beneath the heavy patchwork quilt, her face entirely peaceful, the sharp lines of pain permanently smoothed away into a profound, terrifying stillness. Beside her, Drake sat motionless in a heavy wooden chair he had dragged from the corner of the room, positioning it close to the mattress so he could remain within arm's reach. His massive frame was completely slouched, his broad shoulders sunken forward under the invisible weight of the atmosphere. His eyes, heavily bloodshot and rimmed with dark, shadowed hollows, were vacant—fixed in a glassy, unblinking stare on his mother’s pale, lifeless features.

Downstairs, the house was buried in an oppressive silence. His friends, his brothers in every way that mattered, kept a quiet, heavy vigil in the living room below, the absence of their voices almost echoing through the floorboards like a physical pressure.

In the corner of the bedroom, Leona stood in the shadows, speaking in hushed, fragmented whispers to the doctor. The physician, an elderly man whose hair had gone grey in the service of the village, had conducted his examination with a quiet, practiced solemnity. Turning to the small vanity table, the sharp, rhythmic scratch of his fountain pen punctured the silence of the room, a cold, clinical sound that grated against Drake’s raw nerves.

With a soft, final murmur of condolence to Leona, the doctor walked back over to the bedside, holding out a crisp, folded piece of paper.

Drake’s calloused hand moved automatically, his fingers closing around the document.

“I'm sorry, Drake,” the doctor whispered, offering a grave nod. "She was a good woman. She'll be sorely missed." He smiled sadly at the younger man, resting his wrinkled hand against Drake's shoulder, before slipping out of the room, his heavy footsteps retreating down the creaking staircase.

Drake remained frozen, his knuckles turning white as his grip tightened on the paper, causing it to crinkle loudly in the quiet room. Slowly, agonisingly, he forced his eyes down to the document in his hand. The black ink was fresh, the elegant, loopy cursive of the physician stark against the harsh white background of the Medical Certificate.

A sudden, violent wave of nausea surged through his stomach, followed by a profound, freezing shock that made his entire body tremble. His eyes tracked down to the handwriting under Cause of Death, reading the cold, clinical finality of the diagnosis:

1a. Cardio-Respiratory failure

1b. Tertiary Neurosyphilis

The words hit Drake like a physical blow to the sternum, knocking the remaining air from his lungs. The room seemed to tilt. The bitter, suffocating scent of antiseptic and stale medicine suddenly felt overwhelming, burning the back of his throat.

He stared at the second line. His mind, completely sluggish and suffocated by grief, rejected it. Neurosyphilis. The word felt heavy, ugly, and entirely foreign. It belonged in text-books, or whispered maliciously in the shadows of the city's red-light districts. It didn't belong here. It didn't belong on a document bearing the name of Bianca Walker.

"What is this?" Drake’s voice broke the silence, a low, raspy gravel that sounded completely unrecognisable. He didn't look up from the paper. His chest began to hitch, his breathing turning shallow and erratic. "Leona... what did he write here? This is a mistake. He’s got the wrong chart. He’s bloody old, he’s made a mistake."

He snapped his head up, his vision blurred by hot, panicked tears. He was looking for reassurance, looking for Leona to tell him the doctor was senile.

But Leona was looking right back at him, her chest heaving as fresh tears spilled over her lashes. She didn't look surprised. She looked utterly broken, her shoulders trembling under her shawl. There were no secrets left in the room. She had known Bianca since they were girls; she knew the horror written on the paper in his fist, and she knew exactly where it had come from.

"It's not a mistake, Drake," Leona whispered, her voice cracking into a jagged sob. She took two trembling steps toward him, reaching out a shaking, maternal hand to touch his rigid shoulder.

"No," Drake growled, his whole body violently flinching away from her touch. The denial was a desperate, clawing thing in his chest. "No, look at it! It’s an infection. A blood disease. My mum was a good woman, Leona! She was a seamstress, she worked the shops, she—"

"Drake, listen to me," Leona choked out, gripping his shoulder harder, forcing him to look at her through his blinding tears. "She didn't know. No one did. It slept in her blood all these years. It was completely silent... hidden. The penicillin she had for her chest last winter, it helped mask it. It kept it at bay for a while. Until a few weeks ago when the tremors started in her hands. By then... the doctor said it was already too late. The damage was done. It had already taken hold of her mind, her nerves..."

Slept in her blood all these years.

The phrase hung in the damp air of the bedroom, and suddenly, the fragile dam of Drake's denial fractured entirely. The world didn't just tilt; it completely shattered beneath his feet.

A sudden, vivid, and terrifying rush of memory broke through the numbness, violently dragging him back into the dark winter nights of his childhood.

He could hear it now with a horrifying, crystal clarity: the faint, metallic click of the front door opening in the dead of a freezing winter night. He remembered lying awake beneath his blankets, clutching them to his chin, listening to his mother slipping back into the dark house in the early hours of the morning. From the kitchen, the muffled, heartbreaking sound of her weeping would drift up the stairs, followed by the frantic, obsessive sound of scrubbing.

He remembered the mornings after—the sight of her nursing a bruised eye or a split lip, desperately scrub-washing the dirt and the crushing shame off her skin at the kitchen sink with harsh lye soap, before turning around to greet him with a forced, beautiful smile and a warm bowl of porridge.

The math of poverty. The debts after Jackson took a bullet for Queen Eleanor. The absolute, cruel neglect of the Cordonian crown that had left a protector's widow to rot. To keep a roof over her son's head, Bianca had turned to the only currency she had left, selling her own body on those freezing street corners in the towns a few miles away.

Neurosyphilis.

The clinical word finally connected to the memory of her confession when he was eighteen, when Drake had finally demanded the truth.

He remembered the smell of dust that day as she handed over his dad's belongings—journals, a ring, and an old watch—her voice trembling as she finally laid bare the reality of Jackson's death and how the desperate, countrywide riots had ultimately claimed him. But the history of Cordonia's collapse wasn't what had made Drake's stomach turn; it was the unspoken spaces between her words. He had looked at her, his suspicion finally hardening into the devastating question of what she had really done on those freezing winter nights while he slept.

When the secrets finally spilled out, her voice had broken completely as the old shame burned hot in her soul. He had pulled her into his arms, holding her small, shaking frame close to his chest, telling her she had nothing to be ashamed of, that she did what she had to do to keep them alive.

"It's okay, Mum," he had whispered into her hair, his own tears blinding him. “You were strong. You did what you had to do to keep us alive. You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of."

But he had never realised... she hadn't just sacrificed her dignity. She had contracted a death sentence. The men who had bought her flesh had left a poison in her veins that had quietly, systematically eaten away at her central nervous system for fifteen years while she smiled, baked bread, and loved him fiercely.

As far as Drake was concerned, the blame didn't belong to her. It never had. The blame lay entirely with the monsters who had refused to pay a dead protector's widow. The blame, Drake knew with a white-hot clarity, lay with the Cordonian nobility.

With Constantine. Emilia’s father.

Back in the present, the paper crinkled violently as Drake’s massive fist clenched, crushing the medical certificate into a tight, mangled ball. His chest began to heave in heavy, ragged gasps, the protective wall of numbness completely obliterated by a raw, agonising fury that roared through his veins like wildfire.

The grief was no longer sorrow; it was an incandescent, dangerous rage at the universe, at the crown, and at the systematic cruelty that had literally poisoned his mother's blood while King Constantine sat on a golden throne.

"They killed her," Drake whispered, the words vibrating with pure, unadulterated hatred. He stared at his mother’s peaceful face, his teeth grinding so hard his jaw ached. "Constantine killed her. The nobility killed her."

Leona squeezed his shoulder, her own tears soaking her cheeks. "Drake, please..."

"No!" Drake roared, the sound tearing from his throat, loud and violent enough to rattle the glass in the windowpanes. He ripped himself away from her grip, surging to his feet. His massive frame towered in the tight, low-ceilinged bedroom, his chest heaving like a wounded beast. He raised his clenched, white-knuckled fist—the crushed death certificate mangled inside it—and slammed it down against the heavy wooden post of the bed.

The timber groaned under the impact, but Drake didn't feel the pain in his knuckles. His vision was a blurred, vibrating smear of pure, red hatred.

"I'll kill him," Drake choked out, his voice thick with a lethal, trembling venom. He shook his head, his teeth grinding as the words forced their way past his lips. His eyes glared at the wall as if he could see right through the miles of stone and mist, straight to the palace in the capital. "First he banishes me from my home, he forces me away from my family, my friends. He rips me away from the only woman I have ever loved, leaves me to rot in exile... and now this?! If I ever see him again... if I ever cross paths with that bastard, I will rip him apart with my bare hands. I don't care about his guard. I don’t care about his fucking title! I’ll choke the life out of him, Leona. I swear to God, I will!" He was breathing in short, ragged gasps, his entire body wound tight as a coiled spring, ready to tear the world down to avenge the woman lying in the bed.

"And then what, Drake?!" Leona cried out, her voice cracking as she stepped directly into his path, forcing herself between his towering frame and the door. She grabbed the collar of his shirt, her fingers dug deep into the fabric, her face pale and streaked with terrified tears.

"You'll kill the King? You'll attack the guard?" she shook him, her small frame straining against his weight. "Look at her, Drake! Look at your mother! Why do you think she did it? Why did she stand on those freezing street corners? Why did she take the bruises, the filth, the absolute ruin of her own soul? She did it so you would live! She traded everything she had so a commoner's boy from Ramada could have a future. If you throw your life away for revenge—if you end up behind bars or swinging from a hangman's noose—then it was all for nothing! You will have murdered the only thing she managed to save!"

The words hit Drake like a bucket of freezing water.

He froze, his raised fist remaining suspended in the air. You will have murdered the only thing she managed to save.

He looked down at Leona’s desperate, weeping face, and then slowly, dreadfully, his gaze drifted back to his mother’s peaceful features beneath the patchwork quilt. The silence of the room rushed back in, heavy and absolute, suffocating him.

The fight drained out of him all at once. His shoulders suddenly sagged, the rigid, lethal tension evaporating from his muscles, leaving his limbs feeling weak and heavy as lead. The blinding, incandescent rage collapsed inward, imploding under a devastating, structural wave of absolute guilt. The fury was gone, leaving behind a cold, hollow vacuum that threatened to stop his own heart.

He didn't answer her. He couldn't.

Drake dropped heavily back into the wooden chair, his knees buckling beneath him. He buried his face in his hands, pressing the crushed, ruined certificate hard against his forehead, his massive frame shaking violently with silent, gasping sobs. The realisation broke him entirely, tearing through his soul until he felt like he was physically suffocating.

His mother had traded her physical body, her health, her sanity, and ultimately her very life to buy him a future. He wasn't just a grieving son. He was the boy she had ruined herself to save. And now, he was the man left standing alone, suffocating in the wreckage of her ultimate sacrifice.

*****

During the days that followed Biancas death, time lost all its shape. Hours dragged, thick and suffocating, like a heavy winter fog that refused to lift from the hollow.

The small house in Ramada became a tomb of static air and echoing floorboards. Every room was haunted by the sudden, violent absence of Bianca’s presence. The kitchen counter felt too clean, free of the crumbs left behind by her baking; the sewing basket in the corner sat under a layer of settling dust, the silver needles still threaded with a spool of dark blue cotton she would never finish.

For Drake, the world lost its colour entirely, bleeding out into a monochrome of slate-grey skies and relentless, freezing spring rain. He moved on an agonising autopilot. He had no memory of the undertakers arriving, nor of the quiet, hollow space left behind when they carried his mother's body out of the house. He only remembered the silence that settled into the floorboards afterward—a heavy, suffocating pressure that even his friends couldn't quiet.

They never left his side. Leo and Max moved through the rooms like silent shadows, managing the reality of a world Drake had completely unplugged from. When Leona had gently asked him what Bianca should wear to be laid to rest, Drake had only been able to choke out three words: the floral dress. It had been her absolute favourite, a vibrant splash of colour that she always wore with pride. Instantly, Drake's mind shifted back to the last time he had seen her in it. It had been that warm summer’s day at Applewood, when she had joined him, Eleanor, and Emilia for lunch in the sun-drenched rose gardens. He remembered the vivid patterns of the dress against the blooming flowers—a moment where he had felt happier than he ever had in his life, with his mother and Emilia, the love of his life, right by his side.

Now, the dress hung limp and hollow, a mocking reminder of a warmth that had been systematically stripped away.

His heart ached with a physical, bruising intensity at the thought of that perfect afternoon. Now, trapped in the grim, monochrome reality of his grief, the thought of Emilia was the only thing keeping his head above water. He caught himself wishing for her with every ragged breath he took, craving the phantom weight of her hands holding him, the soft assurance of her voice telling him that the storm would pass. She would give him the strength he needed when the weight in his chest made him feel like he was drowning.

Driven by that desperate need to reach her, he kept writing. Every single day of that agonising week, his clumsy, shaking fingers forced ink onto paper. In those pages, he laid himself completely bare. He didn't write to her with any grand, poetic words; he wrote to her as a drowning man. He laid his soul entirely bare on those pages, spilling the raw, bleeding truth of his mother’s death, the horrific weight of the diagnosis, and the suffocating guilt that was currently crushing the air from his lungs. He told her how much he loved her, how desperately he wished she were standing there with him.

I need you, the ink pleaded between the lines. You are the only light I have left in the dark.

Every afternoon, he would fold the paper, seal it with trembling hands, and give it to Leona to take down to the village post-box.

And every morning, the torment renewed itself. Drake would stand by the glass, his breath fogging the windowpane, praying for a flash of white parchment, a familiar seal, a single line written in her elegant script to break the nightmare. But day after day, the postman passed the gate without stopping. The letters went completely unanswered, leaving a vast, hollow silence where her voice should have been. The absolute lack of an answer—the complete, echoing silence from the woman he loved more than life itself—left him feeling entirely discarded. It was as if he had already been erased from her world, left to drown alone in the dirt of the village.

*****

By the time Friday morning arrived, the rain had finally tapered off into a thick, damp mountain mist that clung to the hedges and slicked the stone path outside.

Inside, the small house was a hive of quiet, sombre preparation. Drake stood in front of the small mirror in the narrow hallway, the air around him smelling of damp wood, old stone, and the sharp tang of shoe polish. His fingers felt entirely detached from his body, clumsy and stiff as ice as he tried to force the plastic button of his white shirt through the frayed loop. His reflection was a stranger’s—his jawline looked hollowed out, the sharp cheekbones cutting beneath skin that had gone a sickly, sleepless grey, and his bloodshot eyes were sunken into deep, violet shadows.

He tried again, but his calloused fingers slipped off the fabric. A sudden, sharp prickle of suffocating frustration flared beneath his collar, tightening around his throat until he could barely breathe. He felt entirely unravelled, a giant of a man reduced to useless trembling by a single piece of plastic.

Through the blurred reflection in the glass, he saw Max and Leo standing at the end of the hallway. They looked just as exhausted, dressed in their own dark, mismatched funeral coats. Leo, who had walked beside Drake since the days of nursery school mud-fights, stepped forward first. Without a word, he reached out, his hand squeezing Drake’s forearm with a crushing, desperate grip—an unspoken language built over a lifetime of shared history. Next to him, Max, who had entered Drake's world as a rowdy teenager and quickly became a brother, leaned in, resting a heavy, grounding palm against Drake’s shoulder blade, leaning his forehead briefly against Drake’s back. They didn’t say anything. They didn't need to. They were simply there, an unbreakable wall of childhood loyalty holding back the dark.

Seeing them there brought a sudden, flickering memory of earlier in the week—a quiet conversation in the dead of night, out by the woodpile in the small back garden.

Drake had pulled Zeke aside, the cold wind whipping at their faces. Zeke had risked everything to help Drake sneak across the Cordonian border from France, and Drake had felt the crushing weight of that debt.

“You should go back, Zeke,” Drake had told him, his voice rough, eyes fixed on the dirt. “What about the farm? You can’t leave it untended. Leo can drive me back after the funeral.”

Zeke had merely let out a soft huff, a plume of white steam rising in the cold air. “Kiara can handle the farm, Drake.” He had stepped closer, clasping a firm hand onto Drake’s neck, forcing him to look up. “Some things are more important than crops. I’m not leaving you to bury your mother alone. I’m staying.”

Drake hadn’t pushed further, too exhausted to notice the tight, strained lines around Zeke's eyes. He didn't know the full truth. Zeke hadn't told him about the arguments back in France, or the way Kiara’s infatuation had twisted into an increasingly aggressive, possessive fixation. Zeke knew Drake’s heart belonged entirely to Emilia, and he had seen the warning signs. He knew that if he crossed back over the border now, Kiara would demand to return to Cordonian soil with him. And as far as Zeke was concerned, while Drake was this raw and vulnerable, the absolute further away Kiara stayed, the better.

So he had stayed, quietly handling the heavy chores in the background all week, acting as a shield Drake didn't even know he needed—proving that true brotherhood knew no borders.

Back in the present, the memory faded as the floorboards creaked. Max and Leo parted, stepping back into the shadows of the sitting room as a larger figure approached.

"Let me," Bastien's rough, low voice sounded from the shadows behind him.

The older man stepped into the cramped hallway space, bringing with him the faint, comforting scent of cedar, wool, and mothballs. With steady, practiced hands that didn't share Drake's tremors, Bastien reached up. His weathered fingers, rough from decades of hard manual labour, brushed gently against the rigid line of Drake's jaw as he effortlessly threaded the stubborn button.

Bastien didn't offer empty, hollow platitudes; he knew there were no words in the language of men that could fix a broken heart. Instead, he carefully smoothed down the heavy lapels of Drake’s black coat, pressing out the creases with deliberate, grounding care, before resting his massive, calloused palms flat against the trembling expanse of Drake's chest.

"Listen to me, son," Bastien murmured, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to anchor the shifting room. "Today is going to be the hardest walk of your life. We are saying goodbye to her body today, yes. But Bianca? She is never truly gone from you."

Slowly, Bastien raised a heavy hand, tapping his fingers gently against Drake's shirt, right over the erratic, heavy thudding of his heart. "She's in here." Then, he moved his fingers up, pressing them against Drake's temple with a soft, meaningful pressure that demanded his absolute focus. "And she's in here. In your memories. The people we love fiercely... we carry them with us through the dark, every single day. The world can never truly take that away from you. Make her proud today, son."

The words struck the fragile dam Drake had built against the world. His eyes instantly welled, a hot, blinding sheen of tears spilling over his lower lashes. The tight, suffocating knot that had been strangling him all morning loosened just enough for him to manage a small, heartbreakingly sad smile.

He gave a tight, rough nod, his vision blurring entirely as he stepped forward and threw his large arms around Bastien, burying his face against the older man's shoulder.

He pulled him into a fierce, desperate hug, clinging to him like a man falling off the edge of the earth. Bastien returned it instantly, his own grip tight, unyielding, and fierce, locking around Drake's massive frame to hold him together. In the quiet, narrow hallway, surrounded by the shadows of his oldest friends, Drake let himself lean entirely into the silent, anchoring strength of a father—the one piece of solid ground left when the world had stripped everything else away.

*****

The transition from the cramped, quiet sanctuary of the hallway to the reality waiting outside was a blur of cold air and heavy, synchronised movement. When Drake finally detached himself from Bastien's embrace, his limbs felt like lead, operating entirely on the lingering echoes of autopilot. With Max and Leo flanking him like shields against the world, and Bastien’s steady hand resting firmly between his shoulder blades, Drake stepped out of the small house in Ramada.

The thick, damp mountain mist they had watched from the window did not break; it swallowed them whole. It hung low and heavy over the valley, clinging to the thorny hedges and slicking the ancient stone path that led down toward the village. The walk was silent, save for the rhythmic, wet crunch of their boots against the gravel and the distant, mournful tolling of the parish bell echoing through the fog. By the time the dark, weathered stone walls of the village church materialised through the mist, the dampness had seeped into the shoulders of Drake's coat, a freezing weight that mirrored the chill settling deep into his bones.

But when the heavy oak doors groaned open, the cold mist was instantly cut by a wall of oppressive warmth.

Inside, the air was thick, heavy, and suffocating, dense with the oily scent of melting beeswax, the musk of damp wool from packed pews, and the sweet, almost sickeningly sharp perfume of spring lilies. It was the smell of death wrapped in respect, a clean, sanitized tribute that made Drake’s stomach actively turn.

The small parish was packed to the absolute doors. Friends, neighbours, and old tradesmen from the village lined the pews, their bodies pressed shoulder-to-shoulder. A low, reverent hum of hushed whispers vibrated through the ancient timber rafters, dropping into an absolute, breathless silence the moment Drake’s large frame darkened the doorway. There wasn't an empty space left. For a community that had watched Bianca fight through the harshest years of her life after Jacksons death, this was their final, quiet tribute to a woman who had been a pillar of silent resilience among them.

But for Drake, at the threshold the crowd vanished. The world shrank entirely to the size of a polished oak box resting on the shoulders of the men before him.

When the weight of the casket settled onto Drake’s broad, muscular shoulder, the sheer, physical reality of it nearly brought him to his knees. A choked gasp caught in his throat. It wasn't just wood and brass pressing into his muscle; it was the absolute, crushing finality of a world without her. To his right, Bastien shifted his weight, his jaw set like weathered iron as he took his share of the burden. Behind them, Leo and Max stepped into place, their grips steady, unyielding, and familiar. They were his brothers in every way that mattered, physically anchoring his massive frame because they knew that without them, the sheer gravity of his grief would collapse him into the flagstones.

As they took their first collective step forward, the organ swelled. It wasn't just music—it was a deep, mournful minor chord that vibrated violently through the floorboards, tearing through the soles of Drake's boots and striking straight into his sternum. The sound seemed to split his chest wide open, exposing everything raw inside.

Hold your head up.

Bastien’s earlier words echoed in the hollow space of his mind, but his head felt heavy as lead. His mother was gone. The thought was a jagged, bleeding wound. She had been his anchor, his north star, the one unshakeable certainty in a life defined by hardship. Aside from Emilia, Bianca was his entire world—the only person who loved him unconditionally, who had held him when he was a boy in mismatched boots, and who had quietly bled for him so he could survive. And now, the absolute emptiness of her absence was a physical, bruising ache behind his ribs.

Drake swallowed the suffocating lump in his throat, locked his trembling knees, and lifted his chin. He took the first step.

It felt like wading through deep, freezing mountain water. Every rhythmic step down the long, candle-lit aisle was a step closer to putting her in the cold earth forever. Through the watery, trembling blur in his vision, the sea of familiar faces turned toward them—the local baker, the seamstress, the old men from the tavern. Their eyes were wide with genuine sorrow, tracing the lines of Bianca's casket before shifting to him with immense, protective respect.

But Drake could barely process them. The candlelight danced mockingly against the dark, polished wood of the coffin, casting long, distorted shadows up the stone walls that felt as twisted as the grief tearing at his throat. His heart hammered against his ribs like a caged animal, each beat loud, hollow, and utterly broken. He wasn't just carrying his mother; he was carrying the carcass of his own childhood.

By the time they reached the altar, Drake's breath was coming in short, ragged, shallow puffs. Together, they lowered the casket onto the wooden trestles with a synchronised, heavy precision. The sudden loss of the physical weight didn't bring relief; it only made him feel dangerously weightless, as if he might break contact with the earth and float away into the gloom of the rafters.

He stepped back into the front pew, his hands clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists inside his coat pockets to keep them from shaking violently.

The parish priest, a man whose hair had gone white long after he had first known the Walker family, stepped up to the pulpit. He cleared his throat, his soft, melodic voice instantly soothing the weeping in the back rows.

"We are gathered here today not just to mourn a loss, but to celebrate a life that gave so much warmth to our community," the priest began, his eyes drifting kindly, sorrowfully to Drake. "Bianca Walker was a woman of rare, uncomplicated kindness. She possessed a heart that never knew how to close its doors. No matter how little she had, no matter how cold the winter nights grew, her home was a sanctuary. She welcomed anyone she met with open arms, a hot cup of tea, and a smile that could make the heaviest burden feel lighter. She was, in every sense, loved and respected by every soul in this village."

A soft murmur of tearful agreement rippled through the pews. Drake kept his eyes fixed on the polished handles of the coffin, his heart twisting into tighter, uglier knots.

"Anyone who knew Bianca," the priest continued, a gentle, nostalgic smile touching his weathered face, "knew that she met the absolute love of her life the day she met Jackson. Together, they didn't just build a home; they built a life rooted in mutual respect, unshakeable love, and a laughter that used to echo down these very streets. And when Jackson was cruelly, abruptly taken from us, Bianca did not crumble. She gathered up her grief and poured every ounce of that fierce, boundless love into her son."

The priest paused, looking directly at Drake now, his voice softening with immense reverence. "Drake was his mother’s pride and joy. There was nothing she wouldn't do for him. No sacrifice too great, no burden too heavy to shield her boy from the cold. She loved him fiercely, completely, until her very last breath. And today, as we return her to Jackson's side, we see her legacy standing before us—a son who carries her strength."

The words were beautiful. They were everything a grieving son should want to hear. But for Drake, each praise felt like a stunning, silver blade sliding between his ribs.

The bittersweet irony of it nearly choked him. The village loved her for her grace and hospitality. They thought of her sacrifices in terms of long hours at legal jobs and worn-out shoes. They didn't know the dark costs of the winter nights. They didn't know about the bruised eyes, the split lips, or the crushing shame she had scrubbed from her skin at the kitchen sink while the rest of the world slept. They didn't know that the crown's neglect had forced a good woman to trade her soul to keep her son alive.

Beside him, Drake felt a small, trembling hand slide across his knuckles, fingers wrapping around his tightly clenched fist.

Drake didn't turn his head, but his grip loosened just enough to let her in. Leona was sitting right there, her shoulder pressed firmly against his. Her chest heaved with silent, breathless sobs, but her grip on his hand was fierce, unyielding, and heavy with a lifetime of shared history. They were the only two people in the crowded church who knew the real price of the bread he had eaten as a boy.

As the priest spoke of Bianca's unshakeable strength, Leona squeezed his fingers—a silent, grounding pressure that spoke volumes. I am here, the gesture promised. You’re not alone. It was the exact same fierce, protective devotion she had given his mother, now transferred entirely to the boy Bianca had ruined herself to save.

When the priest finished, he stepped down, leaving a heavy, expectant silence hanging over the altar. The liturgy called for a remembrance from the family.

Drake felt Bastien’s hand lightly touch his shoulder from behind, a gentle nudge. His knees felt hollow, but he stood up. The movement was slow, his large frame rising like a shadow against the candlelight. The entire church seemed to hold its breath as he walked the few steps to the front, avoiding the pulpit entirely, choosing instead to stand right beside the dark oak of his mother's casket.

He rested one massive, trembling hand on the top of the wood. For a long, agonising moment, he couldn't speak. He stared out at the sea of faces, his throat completely locked, his chest heaving as he fought for air.

"My mother..." Drake's voice broke on the first syllable, rough and gravelly, cutting through the silence like tearing cloth. He swallowed hard, his jaw clenching until the bone clicked. "She didn't have an easy life. Most of you know that. You knew her after my father died. You knew her when the winters were long."

He looked down at the coffin, his calloused thumb tracing the grain of the oak. He couldn't tell them the truth. He couldn't shatter the beautiful, clean memory they had of her. But he needed the universe to know the depth of what she had endured.

"She took the cold so I could have the warmth," Drake whispered, his voice shaking but carrying a sudden, fierce intensity that echoed off the stone walls. "She took every blow the world threw at her, and she never let it touch me. She broke herself to pieces so I could grow up whole. She was... she was the strongest person I will ever know."

His eyes drifted across the front pew, catching Leona’s tear-stained face. A silent, bleeding understanding passed between them.

"I just hope..." Drake's voice cracked, a hot, blinding sheen of tears finally spilling over his lower lashes, tracing a slow path down his hollowed cheek. "I just hope I can carry a fraction of her strength. Because she gave everything she was for me. Everything."

He didn't wipe the tear away. He didn't say another word. He simply leaned down, pressed his forehead briefly against the cold wood of the casket, and stepped back.

When he returned to the pew, he sat heavily, leaning imperceptibly into Leona's side. She instantly found his hand again, locking her fingers through his with a devastating, protective intensity that the peaceful people in the pews would never fully understand.

*****

The final chords of the organ faded into the ancient timber rafters, leaving only the sound of the rain returning with a vengeance, lashing violently against the stained-glass windows.

The walk from the church to the graveyard was a grim, slow-motion blur of black umbrellas and sodden earth. Drake stood at the very edge of the open plot, the freezing Cordonian wind whipping the tail of his coat against his shins as the thick ropes groaned under the strain, slowly lowering the polished oak casket into the dark, wet clay. When it hit the bottom, the sound was hollow, wet, and terribly definitive. Drake watched the first heavy shovel of earth thud onto the lid. Each subsequent mound of dirt felt like a physical blow to his own chest, the final door slamming shut on his childhood forever.

He didn't remember walking away from the graveside. He only knew that the damp, biting cold had settled deep into his marrow by the time they reached the King’s Arms, the village’s lone, weathering tavern.

The landlord, an old friend of Jackson’s whose hands were permanently calloused from decades of pulling pints and clearing fields, had closed the heavy oak doors to the public for the afternoon. A massive, roaring fire crackled fiercely in the hearth, throwing a thick, amber glow over the low timber beams and the worn flagstone floor, but the intense heat couldn't touch the block of ice wedged inside Drake’s chest. The air smelled heavy and comforting—a mixture of woodsmoke, spilled ale, wet wool, and the rich, savoury scent of venison and potato stew the village women had brought to line the long wooden tables.

The pub was packed to the absolute rafters. It was loud—a strange, overwhelming wall of sensory sound made of clinking glasses, blowing noses, and the low, collective rumble of dozens of voices sharing decades of memories.

Standing like a statue near the hearth, Drake was not alone. Leo, Max, and Zeke formed a tight, unbreakable semi-circle around him, acting as silent, protective sentinels to keep the well-wishers from completely suffocating him. They took the brunt of the crowd’s physical weight. Leo stood on his left, greeting the elders with a quiet, respectful familiarity. Max flanked his right, his shoulders subtly shifting to block anyone trying to crowd Drake too closely, while Zeke stood shoulder-to-shoulder with them, his quiet, vigilant presence a steady anchor as he helped accept the condolences of people whose dialect he barely understood.

One by one, the villagers pressed into the small pocket of space his friends managed to preserve.

"She was a saint, Drake," the local blacksmith murmured, leaning past Max to press a heavy, rough hand to Drake’s forearm. "When my girl had the croup winter before last, your mum walked three miles through the mountain drifts just to bring us a batch of her elderberry syrup. Never asked for a penny. Not one."

"Your dad would be so proud of the man you’ve become, son," a silver-haired neighbour whispered, her eyes welling with fresh tears as she offered a tight, trembling nod. "They're back together now. Restin' easy in the quiet."

Drake managed to offer tight, mechanical nods. He forced his lips into small, heartbreakingly sad smiles that didn't reach his hollow eyes. He said thank you until the syllables completely lost their meaning, sounding entirely foreign and empty in his own ears.

Their words were a shield of pure, genuine kindness, but nothing could pierce through the thick, suffocating fog of his grief. The bittersweet irony bled into every single condolence. They spoke of Bianca’s boundless generosity, of her grace, and Jackson's nobility. They didn't know the truth. They didn't know that the very warmth they loved Bianca for was a fire she had fuelled with her own flesh and blood because the Cordonian nobility had left a guard’s widow to starve in the dirt.

Drake took a slow, heavy breath, feeling entirely detached from his own body—a ghost haunting his own mother’s wake.

"Mr. Walker?"

The voice was crisp, formal, and entirely out of place among the rough, gravelly accents of the village. It cut through the tavern's low roar like a pane of glass shattering.

Drake blinked, his vacant stare focusing on a sharp-featured man who had somehow materialised past Max and Leo. He wore an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that looked entirely too clean, too expensive, for the mud-slicked village streets of Ramada. The man held a flat cap in his leather-gloved hands, his expression grave, sharp, and intensely professional.

"I don't mean to intrude on your profound grief," the man said softly, stepping fully into the small pocket of space beside Drake. "My name is Christopher Harrison. I was your mother’s solicitor."

Drake’s brow furrowed slightly, his exhausted mind sluggishly trying to process the word. Solicitor. It didn't compute. His mother was a commoner who had scraped by on pennies, worn-out shoes, and secret, horrific torment. She didn't have legal assets. She didn't have affairs that required a man in a bespoke three-piece suit.

"I was deeply saddened to hear of her passing," Mr. Harrison continued, reaching into the breast pocket of his coat and pulling out a crisp, white business card with elegant, embossed black script. "I only knew her for a short time, but I could tell she was a remarkable woman. Before you make any arrangements to head back across the border to France, you and I need to sit down. I am the executor of her last will and testament."

Drake stared at the card held between the man's fingers. A strange, freezing prickle of unease rippled down his spine, cutting through the emotional numbness of the morning.

"Her... will?" Drake choked out, his voice rough and raspy, sounding like stones grinding together after days of near silence.

"Yes," the solicitor replied with a solemn, unreadable nod. "We have quite a bit to discuss regarding her estate and her final wishes. Please, take my card. Contact my office in the city to arrange an appointment for next week, once the dust has settled here."

Drake’s calloused, stable-hand fingers moved automatically, taking the small piece of pasteboard. The crisp, rigid edges felt incredibly sharp against his rough skin.

"I'll be there," Drake managed, giving a tight, hard nod.

"My deepest condolences, Drake," Mr. Harrison said quietly. He gave a respectful, practiced bow of his head, turned on his heel, and quietly slipped out of the crowded tavern, leaving the heavy oak doors to click shut behind him.

Drake stood absolutely frozen, staring down at the card in his palm. The embossed letters caught the amber light of the hearth fire: Harrison & Associates. The Royal Mile, City of Valen.

The Royal Mile. The most exclusive, heavily guarded legal district in the capital city, serving only the wealthy, the high nobility and the royal court itself.

Drake slowly slipped the card into his coat pocket, his fist clenching around it through the heavy fabric until his knuckles ached. The roar of the pub seemed to fade into a completely dull, distant hum, the warmth of the fire fading away. As he looked back up toward the flames, the grief in his chest suddenly shifted, tightening into a hard, cold, and dangerous knot of profound confusion.

Bianca Walker hadn't just left behind a legacy of survival; she had left behind something else entirely.

“We never found who did it.” August said, “It was a full moon that night, so younger wolves can lose control. It’s rare, extremely rare, but it happens.” His hand slid over her shoulder and she reached up to touch it.

“Why not take her to a hospital or call emergency services?”

“We’re a couple hours into the mountains so cell service sucks and I didn’t have my phone anyway.” Mike said, “With her injuries, by the time they got to us, it would have all been wasted effort. Either she...died from her injuries, or she pulled through and the infection healed her.”

“Why were you up in the mountains and not at the retreat like you told Pastor Graves?”

“I needed to be alone where no one knew where I was.” She said simply. “I needed the quiet and the solitude. While the retreat is certainly very peaceful, you are anything but alone.” She suddenly took in a quick breath through her nose, her head snapping in the direction of the kitchen. “No. No no no.”

“Sam?” Mike asked, looking at her, seeing how she had gone pale.

“Mrs. Graves?”

“Ah, home sweet home!” Came the exclamation, Jonathan walking out from the kitchen, “Though I would have preferred to come in through the front instead of the patio like a member of the staff.”

“No no no.” Samantha whispered, jumping up from her seat and backing away.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Geralt growled as he and the others moved between them.

“This is my home.” Jonathan said, “Come now, Samantha. Aren't you going to greet your husband?”

“A-August. G-Geralt.” She stammered, her voice small.

“Why don’t we take a break?” Napoleon suggested quickly. “Get her out of here.” Walter was the first to get to her, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her from the room quickly as she hid her face in his neck. Jonathan tried to intercept them, but August moved, blocking him as Walter disappeared up the stairs.

He held her in his lap on the bed, his arms around her as she shook. They both looked to the door as it eased open, but it was just Napoleon and Sy.

“One the media crew invited him.” Napoleon said, closing the door behind them. “Probably hoping Samantha would look guilty or ashamed. Instead they got her looking absolutely terrified just seeing him.”

“Leon?” Samantha asked, her voice still shaky, “Did you know--”

“Absolutely not.” He said, “If I had known they would be expressly inviting him here, I would never have agreed to it.” The door opened slightly, Mike sticking his head in.

“She okay?” He asked and Samantha pulled away from Walter to open her arms for him, Mike going to her and climbing onto the bed and into her embrace. “Are you okay?”

“I will be once he's gone.” She said, nodding into his shoulder.

“Want me to get you some water?” He asked and she nodded again, letting him pull away so he could slide off the bed and leave the room, the door closing behind him.

Mike went down the stairs two at a time, swinging around the banister with a hand around it and into the hall leading to the kitchen. Grabbing one of her water cups from the cabinet, he held it under the ice dispenser in the fridge door and then under the water dispenser, watching it fill.

“Mike, right?” He looked over, seeing Jonathan in the doorway.

“Yep, that's me.” He said, turning his attention back to the dispenser and pulling the cup away before it became too full, screwing on the lid with the straw.

“You're young.”

“We both know you like’em young, but I'm not your type, dude.”

“Are you enjoying fucking my wife?” He asked and it made him freeze, his jaw clenching before he swallowed past the anger rising in his chest.

“Actually, yeah.” He said, looking at him again and there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “She sure is beautiful when she comes, but something tells you’ve never seen that yourself. Let me guess,” He gave him a quick once over, “Two Pump Chump? Sixty Second Assassin? Can't get it up without a little blue pill? Sounds about right.” Color crept up Jonathans’ neck, a vein starting to visibly throb in his temple.

“She always was a whore.” Jonathan said, approaching him slowly, “So it makes sense she would spread her legs for a bunch of beasts. Do you all fuck her as wolves, too? Fight over who gets to mount that bit--” Mike snapped, throwing a punch at him but Jonathan dodged, catching his arm and twisting it behind his back, slamming him face first into the fridge, leaning in to hiss into his ear. “I'm going to get that little bitch back and then I'm going to punish her for letting herself get tainted and fucked by beasts.”

“The hell you will!” Mike spat and Jonathan twisted his arm making him hiss in pain.

“There's nothing you can do to stop--” A force colliding with him had him sprawled out on the kitchen floor, looking up at Samantha standing over him, fingers tight as claws slid out from under her nails and eyes burning, the color sharpening as her wolf pushed to the surface.

“Don't you fucking dare touch him.” She growled, an unnatural roughness to her voice. “Get. The fuck. Out. If you ever come here again, I will send you to your fucking god in pieces.”

“Samantha--”

“Out!” She snapped, lips pulling away from sharp teeth. He scrambled to his feet, face ashen as he fled out of the patio doors, disappearing around the house. It was over in less than a minute and Mike moved quickly when she suddenly collapsed as if her strings had been cut, easing her to the kitchen floor. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, sweetcheeks, I'm okay.” He said, holding her against his chest.

“What the fuck was that?!” He looked over, seeing the others in the kitchen doorway.

“She went Alpha.” He said.

“No fuckin’ shit!” Sy exclaimed, “Pretty damn sure every wolf in a ten mile radius felt that!”

“What happened?” Walter asked, going to them and crouching down, “She suddenly ran from the room without a word.”

“Jonathan. He--” Samantha started, swallowing heavily, “He hurt Mike.”

“I'm okay. It was nothing.” Mike said, “Piece of shit provoked me.”

“I saw him hurting him and I didn't--I don't know what came over me. I just needed to get him away from Mike.”

“You protected me, Sam. You're my Alpha and you protected me.” He said, brushing her hair away from her face and pressing his lips to her forehead. “You protected me.”

“Is everything okay in there?” Came the call from the living room.

“Leon, get rid of them.” August said and he gave a tight nod, moving away and back to the living room.

“Come on sweetheart, let's get you off this floor.” Walter said and she wrapped her arms around his neck as he picked her up again in a Princess carry.

“You're carrying me an awful lot today.” She said, weakly attempting humor and he gave a small huff of a laugh.

“If I had my way, your feet would never touch the ground.”

“I know.” She said with a sigh, reaching for him under the blanket and finding his hand with her own, his fingers tightening around hers. Taking his hand from hers, he reached up, holding the side of her jaw and turning her face towards him so he could kiss her, her eyes closing at the slide of his lips against hers. She held his wrist gently as she returned his affections.

Sy walked to the front door the next day as the doorbell tone rang through the house, tugging his sleeves straight before opening it. He already knew the jacket would probably get ditched before the day was out and the sleeves rolled up his forearms, Napoleon would just have to deal.

“Mornin’.” He said, looking at the camera crew outside. “Why don’t y’all come in and we’ll get this kicked off.”

“And you are?” The woman in front asked as he stepped aside to let them in.

“Bryan Syverson.” He said, “Call me Sy, everyone does.”

“Where is Mrs. Graves?” She asked, looking around cautiously.

“Out back.” He said, leading them through the house towards the kitchen, “She was feelin’ a bit restless, so she and Mikey are throwin’ a ball around.” They emerged from the kitchen and out into the expansive backyard. Samantha was on the patio by the pool, a lever in her hand that she raised over her head, flinging it forward, a bright tennis ball flying a considerable distance through the air. A sleek black wolf took off full speed after it, kicking up grass and skidding slightly as he came to a stop, grabbing the ball in his mouth and running back.

“I didn’t know she had a dog.”

“Oh, no.” Sy said with a snort, “That’s my brother, Mike.”

“That’s your...brother.” A cameraman said, his small camera already out and filming and Sy nodded.

“My baby brother, yeah.” He said and gave a shrill whistle through his teeth. “Company’s here! Wrap it up!” He saw Samantha’s eyes move to the crew, her smile faltering slightly before coming back, but far more controlled this time instead of genuine. Mike ran past her at a decent pace before jumping into the pool with a splash, disappearing under the water before emerging again at the edge, pushing himself up out of the pool and shaking his head to get water out of his hair, having shifted back while under the water.

“Wish you wouldn’t do that.” Samantha said, “You got grass and sticks in the pool.”

“I’ll run the skimmer later.” He said, wrapping the towel that had been on a lounge chair around his hips.

“Go get dressed, Fido.” Sy said and Mike stuck his tongue out at him as he jogged past them into the house after pressing a kiss to Samantha’s cheek.

“I didn’t know wolves played fetch.” The cameraman said.

“Oh, we don’t.” Sy said, “I keep tellin’ him it ain’t dignified, but fuck it if that boy listens to a damn thing I say.”

“How old is he?”

“He’ll be twenty-five in the summer.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-six in the fall.” Sy said and Samantha stepped into her shoes after putting away the ball and toy. Going over to him, her arm slid over his waist and he looked down at her fondly as he held her shoulder. “Feel a bit better?”

“A bit.” She admitted. “Should we get started? We can do this out here or inside. I don’t mind either way.”

“We’re setting up in the living room.” The cameraman said and she nodded before looking back at Sy.

“Are the others ready?” She asked.

“August, Walt, and Napoleon should be and —here’s Geralt.” They looked over as he emerged from the pool house, straightening his tie, Samantha going to him and running her hands over his suit jacket.

“You look handsome.” She said and he gave her a soft smile.

“What about me?” Sy asked and she gave him a look that made him snort in amusement.

“And this is?” The woman asked.

“Geralt Rivian.” He said simply. “You’re Olivia Rogers?”

“Yes, how—”

“Solo told us you’d be conducting the interview.” He said, “Let’s go inside.”

“What do you do, Mr. Rivian?” Olivia asked as they walked back into the house and Geralt blinked at her.

“I kill things.” He said with about as much tact as a brick.

“Geralt is a Tracker with the Pack Council.” Samantha clarified, “He works with law enforcement to hunt down Feral wolves.”

“I—I see.” Olivia said, having gone a bit pale under Geralt’s steady amber gaze. “Sounds like dangerous work.”

“It is.” He said, “But that’s not why you’re here.”

“You kill your own kind?” A cameraman asked.

“Ferals are not “my own kind”. They’re dangerous and should be dealt with quickly.” Geralt said.

“Again, Geralt works with law enforcement, both local and federal to hunt down these wolves and make sure they can’t hurt anyone else, human or wolf.” Samantha said. “He protects people.”

“He just said he kills other wolves for a living.” Olivia said, “A wolf is a wolf.”

“They’re not—” He stopped as Samantha’s hand curled around his fingers, his jaw clenching.

“Geralt isn’t why you’re here.” She said, “I am. You will direct any and all questions towards me. It was already agreed upon that the questions would only pertain to my impending divorce from Pastor Graves.”

Joshua sat in the leather hardback chair beside Sophia’s SICU bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The room felt too quiet, too still, too wrong. The ventilator breathed for her in steady, mechanical cycles, lifting her chest and letting it fall again with perfect, unnatural rhythm. The tubing ran from the endotracheal tube secured at her mouth to the ventilator tower beside the bed, its screen glowing softly in the dim light.

Her sedation kept her under.

Her pneumonia kept her dependent.

Her body kept fighting.

Joshua didn’t blink. His leg trembled in uneven pulses. His breath stayed shallow, catching every few seconds like his lungs were still stuck in the NICU’s rhythm — the rhythm he’d been listening to downstairs, the one that had changed the moment the baby’s feeding cues started.

He could still see it when he closed his eyes: the tiny mouth fluttering around the OG tube, the faint rooting motion against the air, the way the baby’s hand kept drifting toward his face even though he didn’t have the strength to complete the movement. The nurse had called it hunger — trophic readiness — and had threaded donor colostrum through the syringe pump, letting it drip in slow, measured pulses through the tube taped to the baby’s cheek.

Joshua had watched every millilitre.

Watched the pump click.

Watched the baby’s chest rise with the ventilator as the feed ran.

Watched the nurse check the abdomen for distention.

Watched the monitor for any sign of intolerance.

And now, upstairs, the silence pressed against him, heavy and padded, as if the room didn’t know what had happened downstairs.

He stared at Sophia’s face — still, pale, unchanged — and felt the weight of the night settle deeper into his chest. The ventilator’s rhythm was steady, but it didn’t comfort him. It only reminded him that she wasn’t breathing on her own. That she wasn’t waking. That she wasn’t here with him in any way that mattered.

The door opened softly.

A night‑shift SICU nurse stepped inside, her voice low so she wouldn’t disturb the sedation. She studied him for a moment — the rigid spine, the locked jaw, the hollowed eyes fixed on Sophia’s face.

“Joshua,” she said gently. “You need to rest.”

He shook his head once.

“I’m fine.”

He wasn’t. She could see it instantly — the tremor in his leg, the way his shoulders were pulled so tight they looked painful, the way his breath kept stuttering like he was fighting to keep it steady.

“You’ve had a very hard night,” she said quietly.

Joshua didn’t answer. His eyes stayed fixed on Sophia, as if looking away would make something happen — as if the NICU’s alarms could reach this room if he stopped watching her for even a second. As if he might hear the pump downstairs clicking through another feed, or the soft sound the baby made when his mouth fluttered again.

“You’re shaking,” the nurse said.

Joshua exhaled, a thin, uneven breath that sounded like it hurt.

“I’m not leaving her.”

“I’m not asking you to leave,” she said. “I’m asking you to breathe.”

Joshua’s fingers unclasped, then tightened again. His chest rose in a shallow, trembling inhale.

“She’s stable enough right now,” the nurse said carefully — the only reassurance she was allowed to give. “We’re watching her closely.”

Joshua swallowed hard.

“She’s not waking.”

The nurse didn’t contradict him.

“We take it one hour at a time,” she said. “That’s how we get through nights like this.”

Joshua closed his eyes, the tremor in his leg worsening for a moment before he forced it still. The nurse stayed beside him, watching the man who had been dragged through two units in one night, who had seen too much, who had lost too much, who was holding too much.

Sophia’s ventilator cycled steadily.

Her sedation kept her under.

The room stayed quiet.

Footsteps approached the room — fast, purposeful, urgent. Not SICU footsteps. NICU footsteps. Joshua recognized the rhythm instantly.

A NICU nurse appeared in the doorway, her badge still clipped to her scrubs, her face tight with urgency.

“Joshua.”

His head snapped up.

“You need to come downstairs.”

Joshua’s stomach dropped.

“What happened?”

“He’s having a rough patch,” she said. “We’re managing it, but you need to be there.”

Joshua stood too fast. His leg buckled. The SICU nurse caught his arm before he could fall.

“Easy,” she said. “Slow down.”

He didn’t slow down. He couldn’t.

His breath came in thin, broken pulls as he looked at Sophia — ventilated, sedated, unmoving — and then back at the NICU nurse.

“I can’t leave her.”

“You have to,” the NICU nurse said. “Just for now.”

The SICU nurse steadied him.

“I’ll stay with her,” she said. “She’s stable.”

Joshua swallowed hard, his throat tight.

The NICU nurse stepped closer.

“Joshua. We need to go.”

He looked at Sophia one more time — the rise and fall of the ventilator, the stillness of her face, the bandages across her abdomen — then forced himself toward the door.

His leg trembled violently.

His breath stuttered.

His vision blurred at the edges.

But he moved.

He scrubbed out of SICU with shaking hands, the water running over fingers that wouldn’t stay steady. He walked the corridor with uneven steps, waited for the elevator with his breath catching in sharp, shallow pulls. The elevator arrived. He stepped inside. The doors closed. The descent felt too slow, too quiet, too long.

He scrubbed into NICU with trembling hands, the antiseptic smell sharp in his nose. He dried his hands, pulled on the gown, the gloves, the mask. The NICU nurse led him forward.

They rounded the corner.

Joshua stopped.

His son’s incubator was surrounded again — not in the chaotic crush of a code, but in the tense, controlled urgency of a fight that could turn into one without warning. The oscillator vibrated in rapid, uneven rhythm. The ventilator hissed in sharp bursts. The monitors flashed red and yellow in alternating patterns, each alarm a reminder of how fragile the situation was.

A neonatologist adjusted the ventilator settings with quick, precise movements. A respiratory therapist monitored the arterial line. A nurse checked the IV pumps, her hands steady but her jaw tight. Another nurse held the syringe pump connected to the OG tube, the line still taped to the baby’s cheek from the earlier trophic feed. The syringe was paused now, the plunger locked in place — the feed stopped the moment the instability began.

Joshua’s breath broke.

“What’s happening?” he whispered.

“He’s having trouble maintaining his oxygenation,” the NICU nurse said. “We’re trying to stabilize him.”

Joshua moved closer, his leg shaking so badly he had to grip the side of the incubator to stay upright. The plastic felt cold under his hand.

The neonatologist called out numbers — oxygen saturation dropping, heart rate fluctuating, blood pressure unstable.

The respiratory therapist adjusted the oscillator amplitude. The ventilator hissed harder. The alarms grew louder, sharper, more insistent.

“Come on,” the neonatologist murmured. “Come on, little one.”

Joshua stared at the tiny body inside the incubator — impossibly small, impossibly fragile, chest rising and falling with the mechanical rhythm of the ventilator. The baby’s skin looked translucent under the harsh NICU lights. The IVH monitor glowed red. The arterial line pulsed weakly. The OG tube rested against his cheek, the tape slightly lifted at the corner from the earlier rooting motion — the faint hunger cue Joshua had seen before everything went wrong.

“Please,” Joshua whispered. “Please don’t stop.”

The neonatologist adjusted another setting. The respiratory therapist repositioned the tubing. A nurse silenced an alarm only for it to start again seconds later. Another nurse checked the baby’s abdomen with gentle pressure — confirming no distention, no feed intolerance, no residual pooling — even though the feed had been paused.

The numbers kept dropping.

Joshua’s breath came in sharp, uneven pulls. His hands shook violently. His spine felt like it was splintering.

“Let’s increase the mean airway pressure,” the neonatologist said.

The respiratory therapist nodded, adjusting the ventilator. The oscillator’s rhythm changed — deeper, more forceful, pushing air into lungs that didn’t know how to breathe.

The baby’s oxygen saturation dipped again.

Joshua’s knees buckled.

The NICU nurse caught his arm.

“Joshua,” she said softly. “He’s fighting.”

“He’s losing,” Joshua whispered.

“No,” she said firmly. “He’s fighting.”

The neonatologist leaned closer, watching the monitor with the kind of focus that looked like desperation disguised as medicine.

“Come on,” she whispered again. “Come on.”

The numbers held.

Not rising.

Not falling.

Just holding.

The alarms softened — not stopping, but easing. The ventilator hissed in steadier rhythm. The oscillator’s vibration evened out. The paused syringe pump remained still, the feed waiting for the moment he was stable enough to tolerate it again.

“Okay,” the neonatologist said quietly. “Okay. He’s stabilizing.”

Joshua exhaled sharply, painfully. His legs trembled. His chest felt torn open.

He pressed a hand to the incubator, fingers shaking.

“He’s still here,” the neonatologist said.

Joshua closed his eyes, tears slipping down his face.

The NICU staff stepped back slowly, their movements careful, their eyes still on the monitors.

Joshua stayed where he was — hand on the incubator, breath shaking, chest tight, leg trembling — staring at the tiny life inside the plastic box.

The numbers held.

The alarms softened.

The ventilator kept breathing for him.

The paused feed waited.

Joshua didn’t move.

He stayed frozen in the brightness, in the terror, in the fight that had almost taken everything from him, listening to the fragile rhythm of a life that had barely survived the night.

He didn’t know how long he stood there. Minutes, maybe. The NICU lights were too bright, the air too cold, the alarms too sharp. His hand stayed pressed to the incubator, fingers trembling against the plastic. His breath came in uneven pulls, each one catching like his lungs were still stuck in the rhythm of the oscillator.

A nurse approached quietly, her voice low.

“Joshua… you should sit.”

He didn’t move.

She didn’t push. She just stayed near him, watching the way his shoulders shook, the way his jaw locked, the way his eyes stayed fixed on the tiny chest rising and falling with mechanical precision.

Another alarm chirped — softer this time, a warning rather than a crisis. The neonatologist adjusted a setting, her movements calm now, controlled, steady. The respiratory therapist checked the arterial line again, confirming the numbers were holding. A nurse glanced at the paused syringe pump connected to the OG tube, checking the line for any backflow — making sure the earlier trophic feed hadn’t left residuals that could complicate the instability.

Joshua’s breath shuddered.

“He scared us,” the nurse said softly.

Joshua swallowed hard, his throat tight.

“He scared me,” he whispered.

The nurse nodded once, her expression gentle.

“He’s still here.”

Joshua’s hand tightened on the incubator frame, his knuckles whitening. He leaned closer, staring at the tiny face beneath the ventilator tubing, the fragile skin, the impossibly small features. The OG tube rested against his cheek, the tape slightly wrinkled from the earlier rooting motion — the tiny hunger cue that had made the nurse pause the feed when the alarms started.

“He’s so little,” Joshua said, voice breaking.

“I know.”

“He’s so… small.”

“I know,” she repeated, softer this time.

Joshua’s chest tightened painfully. His leg trembled again, the tremor running up through his hip and into his spine. He felt like he was shaking apart, like the night had splintered something inside him that couldn’t be put back together.

The neonatologist stepped around the incubator, her voice quiet but steady.

“He’s stable enough for now,” she said. “We’ll keep monitoring him closely.”

Joshua nodded, but it didn’t feel like agreement. It felt like surrender — the kind that came from exhaustion, fear, and the weight of too many hours spent between two floors that kept taking pieces of him.

The neonatologist studied him for a moment.

“You should take a break,” she said gently.

Joshua shook his head.

“I’m not leaving him.”

“You don’t have to leave,” she said. “Just sit. Breathe. Let your body catch up.”

Joshua didn’t sit. He didn’t breathe deeply. He didn’t move at all. He stayed frozen, hand on the incubator, eyes locked on the tiny chest rising and falling with the ventilator’s rhythm.

The neonatologist didn’t push him. She stepped back, giving him space.

A nurse adjusted one of the IV pumps. Another checked the oscillator tubing. The respiratory therapist documented the latest readings. A NICU nurse checked the baby’s abdomen again — gentle pressure, confirming no distention, no residual pooling, no signs of feed intolerance. The syringe pump remained paused, waiting for the moment he was stable enough to resume the slow drip of donor colostrum.

The NICU moved around him in quiet, controlled motions, the kind that came after a crisis — the kind that felt like the unit was exhaling.

Joshua didn’t exhale.

He stayed rigid, breath shallow, chest tight.

The NICU nurse who had brought him downstairs stepped beside him again.

“Joshua,” she said softly. “You need to sit.”

He didn’t respond.

She placed a hand lightly on his arm.

“Come on,” she said. “Just for a minute.”

Joshua’s fingers slipped from the incubator frame. His knees wavered. The nurse guided him to the nearest chair, helping him lower himself before his legs could give out completely.

He sat, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, breath shaking.

The incubator was still in front of him.

The ventilator still hissed.

The oscillator still vibrated.

The monitors still glowed.

The paused feed still waited.

But he wasn’t standing anymore.

He wasn’t holding himself upright.

He wasn’t pretending he was fine.

He stared at his son, the tiny body fighting inside the plastic box, and felt the weight of everything pressing down on him — the SICU, the NICU, the crash C‑section, the blood loss, the resuscitation, the ventilators, the alarms, the fear, the exhaustion, the night that wouldn’t end.

His breath broke again.

The nurse stayed beside him, silent, steady, present.

Joshua didn’t look away from the incubator.

He couldn’t.

Joshua leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, breath trembling. His vision blurred again. His chest felt hollow. His spine felt brittle.

He didn’t hear the footsteps at first.

He didn’t hear the elevator doors open.

He didn’t hear the sharp inhale from the corridor.

He only heard his own breath — thin, uneven, breaking — and the faint, paused click of the syringe pump beside the incubator, the plunger still locked from when the trophic feed had been stopped during the instability. The OG tube rested against his son’s cheek, the tape slightly wrinkled from the earlier rooting motion — the tiny hunger cue that had come before everything fell apart.

“Joshua?”

He froze.

The voice was familiar.

Too familiar.

Too raw.

He lifted his head. Jonah stood at the edge of the nurses’ station, chest heaving, hair disheveled, face pale, eyes wide with terror. He looked like he had run through the entire hospital without stopping. His breath came fast, uneven, panicked.

“Joshua,” Jonah said again, voice cracking.

Joshua stared at him, unable to speak.

Jonah stepped closer, each movement slow, careful, terrified. His eyes flicked to the glass wall — to Sophia’s ventilator, to the tubing, to the sedation, to the stillness — and something inside him shattered.

“Oh God,” Jonah whispered. “Oh God… Joshua…”

Joshua swallowed hard, his throat tight.

Jonah reached him, crouched beside the chair, and placed a trembling hand on his shoulder.

“What happened?” Jonah whispered.

Joshua’s breath caught.

“She nearly died,” he said, voice breaking. “She… she almost died.”

Jonah’s eyes filled instantly.

He looked through the glass again — at the ventilator cycling, at the sedation keeping her under, at the stillness of her face — and his breath broke.

He reached for Joshua, pulling him into a tight, desperate embrace.

Joshua didn’t resist.

He collapsed into Jonah’s arms, breath shaking, chest breaking open, the weight of the night finally spilling out of him.

Jonah held him, one hand gripping the back of his head, the other around his shoulders, grounding him, steadying him, anchoring him.

“I’m here,” Jonah whispered. “I’m here. I’m here.”

Joshua’s breath broke again.

Jonah didn’t let go.

He stayed with him — in the brightness of the nurses’ station, in the terror, in the stillness of the SICU — holding the man who had been dragged through two floors of hell, who had nearly lost everything, who had nothing left to stand on.

Sophia’s ventilator cycled steadily behind the glass.

The monitors glowed softly.

The unit moved around them.

And just beyond Jonah’s shoulder, the NICU nurse quietly checked the paused syringe pump again — confirming the line was clear, the OG tube secure, the baby’s abdomen still soft — waiting for the moment he was stable enough to resume the slow drip of donor colostrum.

Jonah held Joshua as the night finally broke around them.

Layla let out a heavy sigh. Clearly, she was genuinely stressed about this reunion.

“Why don’t you just not go?” Y/N offered. “It’s not like you talk to most of those people anymore. Most of your friends are from surrounding towns, or you went to college with them, or their Aiden’s friends' wives and girlfriends.”

“It’ll be worse alone. At least we could laugh at everyone together.”

Y/N sighed. A part of her still felt like she owed Layla so much. After all, her cousin let her stay with her rent-free for an entire year. And if Layla hadn’t begged her to do so, Y/N never would’ve met Sy.

Layla has never held It over her head and she never would.

But a chill goes up Y/N’s spine every time she thinks about how her life would be if she never found Sy. So, she felt like she owed Layla the same happiness she’d gained.

“Is it an open bar?” Y/N asked while looking at the lake.

Layla sat up straighter. “Of course.”

“Fine. I’ll come.”

The next thing she knew, Y/N was being tackled by Layla in a vice-like hug.

Y/N giggled at her cousin’s reaction. “OK. OK. OK. Get off me.”

Layla pulled away and grabbed her cellphone, calling someone.

“Who are you calling?” Y/N asked with confusion.

But Layla ignored her. “Hello my sweet, sweet, handsome hubby.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and looked behind them at the house that sat up the hill, 50 yards away from them.

“Could you make us some margaritas or bloody marys or even micheladas.” Then she added ever so sweetly, “Pleassseeeeee?”

Y/N rolled her eyes at Layla’s act.

Aiden must’ve submitted because Layla then cheered and practically squealed, “Thank you!” Then hung up, looking very pleased with herself.

Y/N lifted her sunglasses and narrowed her gaze on Layla. “I can’t believe that poor bastard is stuck with you forever.”

Layla rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. I spoil him just as much. And who are you to say anythin’? Syverson treats you like a damn queen.”

Y/N tried to hide her smirk and pulled her sunglasses back down. “It’s not like I ever asked him to…”

Layla giggled, “No, you don’t. But the man can’t help himself, now can he?”

15 minutes later, Aiden came down with a pitcher of frozen margaritas and two glasses already salted.

Layla gave her husband a passionate kiss not meant to be done in front of others. So Y/N made a point of making a gag noise at the two of them, earning her another punch to her arm from Layla.

––––

As soon as Y/N walked into a random dive bar in Layla’s hometown, she knew she had made a mistake.

Her and Layla stuck out like a sore thumb.

“We should’ve pregamed,” Y/N muttered quietly to her cousin.

The two of them made a point of trying not to overdress: Layla in a cute dress and Y/N with simple jeans and a cute top. But somehow they still looked like they were going to a completely different event than the rest of the women at the reunion.

“Shots. We need shots,” Layla blurted out before tugging her to the nearest bar.

It only took a few minutes for some of Layla’s old classmates to find her and attack. Some of them already knew Y/N was her cousin. And it was clear many of them thought it was weird – the nicer ones thought it was fun.

But it took a bit of alcohol and time for others to start thinking Layla was her girlfriend.

“Layla why didn’t you come out in high school,” a former mean girl asked, her words slightly slurred.

Layla had told Y/N her name was Caylin. A couple of her minions were by her side, clearly never having gained their own independence – even after high school and college.

Layla tried not to laugh. Honestly, she was kind of flattered.

“Yeah, why didn’t you come out in high school?” Y/N asked, giving no help.

Caylin got closer, eyeing the two of themm and lowered her voice, “Is it true?”

When Y/N and Layla shared a look of confusion, Caylin added even quieter, “You know… that the sex is so much better.”

“Oh, yeah,” Y/N answered without hesitation, voice quiet but excited, as if were some kind of scandalous secret. “It’s sooooo much better.”

The women were even more intrigued and gathered closer.

“Do you really…” the girl hesitated. “Do you really cum every time?”

Layla looked concerned now. “Are you tellin’ me that you ain’t cummin’ every time? Haven’t you been married to Chad Keen for like 5 years?”

“Most of the time it doesn’t happen,” Caylin shrugged. “But that’s normal.”

Then she looked at her friends for confirmation, and none of them look horrified like Layla and Y/N were.

Mother of God. Someone help these women.

Y/N couldn't help herself as she asked, “So you just… fake it all the time?”

It was hard to even ask the question, the idea was so upsetting to her.

“I’ve never even orgasmed before,” one of the minions commented.

Layla’s jaw dropped. “OK. Georgia. That is not some sort of humble brag.”

Y/N whipped out her phone. “OK. I’m going to need everyone’s addresses so I can send all of you a box of sex toys.”

“Sex toys!?” Caylin hissed as if Y/N has just told her she murdered someone.

“Are you telling me you masturbate, too?” One of them asked in disgust.

“Ummm. Everyone should be masturbating,” Y/N preached.

“Gross. I don’t do that,” Georgia chimed in again waving her hand and cringing.

“How the hell ya’ll expect a man to please you if you ain’t know how to please yourself?” Layla yelped.

Caylin gave them a cocky smile. “I’ll have you know, my man is very satisfied.”

“Who gives a fuck if he can’t return the favor?” Y/N spit out without thinking.

“Oh, look at that,” Layla looked down at her phone dramatically. “Aiden is here to pick us up.”

And with that, Layla tugged Y/N out of the bar. “So nice seeing you girls,” she managed to call over her shoulder.

By some miracle, Aiden drove up a few minutes later. But unbeknownst to Y/N, Layla had texted him half an hour ago that they needed to Irish goodbye soon and he promised to be their get away driver earlier that day.

However, Aiden didn’t expect the two of them to be so drunk.

“My God, Layla,” he laughed when they struggled to climb into the truck. “I didn’t know y’all were fixin’ to get toasted at this thing. It’s only 7 o’clock.”

“Mind your business, Aiden.” Y/N growled before falling into a fit of giggles.

“Yeah, let us live our lives,” Layla added.

Aiden shook his head, but smiled. “Well, alright then. Does livin’ your best lives’ include gettin’ somethin’ to eat?”

––––

Half an hour later, Y/N was being delivered to Syverson’s home with a bag of fast food in one hand and pushing Aiden away with the other as he tried to escort her to the front door.

“Scared I’m gonna get lost?” Y/N laughed as she shoved a frie in her mouth.

“Just tryin’ to make sure you don’t fall and break somethin’. Sy would kill me.”

Aiden knocked on the front door.

“Oh, please,” Y/N rolled her eyes. “He’s not even that scary. It’s all a front.”

Syverson opened the door and it only took a second of looking at Y/N to say, “Ahh hell. What did ya’ll do to my girlfriend?”

“This would be my wife’s doin’,” Aiden chuckled. “Just makin’ sure she got home safely.”

“Thanks, Aiden. ‘ppreciate it.” And he gently pulled Y/N into the house.

Aiden nodded. “See ya around, Sy.”

“I brought you some food!” Y/N cheered as Sy closed the front door.

Sy subtly smirked. “Well, that was mighty kind of you, darlin’.”

He followed her as she walked crookedly to the living room and fell onto the couch to continue her feast.

Sy slowly sat down next to her.

Then Y/N suddenly remembered something. Her eyes widened and she turned to him. “Oh, I have quite the horrifying story for you."

Sy listened as Y/N retold the strange conversation she had with Layla’s old classmates. He didn’t interrupt or show any strong reactions. But she could tell he was paying close attention to not only the story, but also Y/N’s reaction to it.

Once she was done, Y/N let out a heavy sigh, “I swear Sy…sometimes the people here make me feel like I’m in a different world.” She shook her head. “Like, those dudes might as well just marry a sex doll. Clearly they wouldn’t know the fucking difference…”

She had sobered up a bit since eating her food and Syverson shoving a large glass of water at her. And somehow the subject got her so fired up that it was like it burned all the alcohol out of her system.

“Well, you’ve been awfully quiet,” Y/N coed as she poked Syverson's shoulder. Then she teased, “What? Are you one of those guys who’s intimidated by a woman’s sex toys?”

Sy gave her a look as if saying, ‘I’m warnin’ you, darlin’.’

But Y/N wanted to play, so she kept poking. “Oooo. The big, bad Ethan Syverson is scared of them.”

To her surprise, Sy’s response was grabbing Y/N and pulling her on top of his lap, giving her no choice but to straddle him on the couch.

No matter how long they’d been together, Y/N still got surprised when he manhandled her like this. Not that she minded. Actually, she was obsessed with it.

“Darlin’,” his voice was deep, giving her chills, “I’ve seen that vibrator of yours. And since then, I can’t stop thinkin’ about watchin’ you use it on yourself.”

Y/N felt her cheeks grow hot.

Another thing she’d probably never get used to: Sy’s directness when it came to sex. She couldn’t match it – and maybe she never would be able to. But that didn’t mean she didn’t love it from him. It just made her shy, but excited.

Sy studied her reaction to his words and waited for her to break the silence. When she didn’t, he got worried that he’d gone too far for her.

“Too honest?” He asked gently.

“No, no, no,” Y/N quickly answered. “Just…not what I expected you to say.” She gave him a shy smile and laugh.

While Sy’s hands gripped her waist, his thumbs traced up and down her sides in an effort to comfort her.

“Maybe for another time,” he told her softly.

Which was code for, ‘When you’re ready. But it’s OK if you never are.’

‘God, I love this man,’ Y/N thought.

“Any man that’s intimidated by his woman’s sex toys is no man at all. That there is a boy,” Syverson added for good measure.

Y/N nodded in agreement.

Then she suddenly realized that with all the talk of unfulfilled women, not one did Sy look stressed about it, not at all relating it to his sex life or their sex lives.

She leaned closer to her boyfriend, bumping their noses with a mischievous smirk. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I’ve ever faked it?”

Sy scoffed. It was an unusual sound, not often heard from him. “Don’t insult me, darlin'. You really think I wouldn’t know?”

Y/N giggled at how fired up she made him from a single sentence.

Then Sy jerked back to fully look at her. “And don’t you ever try to, ya hear me?”

She was caught off guard by the seriousness in his eyes and his military voice.

But she still answered with, “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.”

Goosebumps and heat simultaneously rushed through Y/N at the comment. ‘That bastard, he knows exactly what he’s doing,’ she thought.

“After what you witnessed today, think I should remind you it ain’t somethin’ you gotta worry about, darlin’.”

Then his lips crashes against hers.

Y/N pulled away with a laugh. “And what exactly does that entail?”

“Not what, darlin’. How many.”

Jesus fucking christ.

He kissed her again and his hands moved under her top, starting to pull it off of her.

Once it was off and Y/N was left in just her bra and jeans, she paused their kissing. “Upstairs?”

Sy shook his head. “Nuh huh. Right here.”

Y/N felt sorry for those poor women.

–––––––––––

Joshua didn’t remember leaving the SICU. He didn’t remember the elevator ride. He didn’t remember walking through the NICU doors. All he remembered was the cold, the machines, and the tiny body lying under the polyethylene wrap.

He stood near the isolette, close enough to see every fragile rise of his son’s chest, but not touching anything. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, fingers curled tight, knuckles white from the effort of keeping them still. The ventilator hissed in steady intervals, each breath too shallow, too fragile, too thin.

A nurse adjusted the transcutaneous monitor. Another checked the ventilator tubing. Someone whispered something about blood gases. Joshua didn’t respond. He barely heard them. His world had narrowed to the small, unmoving limbs inside the isolette and the cold air that made his shoulders shake.

He didn’t know how long he stood there. Minutes. Hours. Something in between. The NICU lights shifted the way they did when the unit moved deeper into the day, but Joshua didn’t look up. He didn’t move. He didn’t blink.

“Joshua… you need to sit,” a nurse said softly.

He didn’t answer.

She didn’t push. She stepped back, giving him space — the kind of space NICU nurses gave parents who were breaking.

Joshua’s legs trembled. His breath caught. His chest felt hollow. He finally stepped back from the isolette, not because he wanted to, but because his body wouldn’t hold him upright anymore.

He walked toward the NICU doors, slow and uneven, each step heavier than the last. When he reached the glass, Jonah was still there.

Jonah hadn’t moved. He hadn’t sat. He hadn’t left. He stood exactly where Joshua had last seen him — tense, worried, breath tight, eyes fixed on the door like he was waiting for something he didn’t know how to ask for.

Joshua stepped out into the hallway. The cold NICU air followed him.

Jonah straightened immediately.

“Josh.”

Joshua didn’t speak. His breath shook. His hands shook. His shoulders shook.

Jonah stepped closer.

“Josh… talk to me.”

Joshua swallowed. The movement felt sharp, painful, like something inside him was tearing.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Jonah’s voice softened.

“Josh… please.”

Joshua pressed a hand to the wall, steadying himself. His vision blurred. His breath fractured.

Jonah reached for his arm.

“Josh… what’s wrong?”

Joshua inhaled — shallow, uneven. He forced the words out.

“He’s a boy.”

Jonah froze.

Joshua’s voice broke.

“My son… he’s a boy.”

The hallway went silent.

Jonah didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stared at Joshua — at the tremor in his hands, the hollow look in his eyes, the way the truth seemed to tear something open inside him.

Joshua swallowed again, breath shaking.

“I didn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t. Sophia never knew. She collapsed without warning, and she hasn’t woken. She thought she was carrying Emily. That was the last thing she believed.”

His voice cracked — a small, fractured sound that came from somewhere deep and ruined.

Jonah’s expression changed — not shock, not confusion, but something heavier, something that came from the place older brothers kept their fear.

“Josh…”

Joshua shook his head.

“I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Jonah stepped closer, voice low.

“Josh… why didn’t you tell me?”

Joshua looked down — at the floor, at his shoes, at anything that wasn’t Jonah’s face.

“I didn’t want anyone to know until Sophia woke.”

Jonah swallowed hard.

“Josh… she’s not waking.”

Joshua’s breath broke — a small, sharp sound. He pressed a hand to his ribs, as if he could hold himself together physically.

Jonah reached for him again.

“Josh… come here.”

Joshua didn’t move. He couldn’t. His legs felt locked. His chest felt tight. His throat felt closed.

Jonah stepped forward and pulled him into a rough, uneven embrace — not gentle, not soft, but the kind of hold older brothers used when the world was falling apart.

Joshua didn’t resist.

He collapsed into it — shoulders shaking, breath fractured, hands gripping Jonah’s shirt like he needed something solid to keep himself upright.

Jonah held him tighter.

“Josh… I’m here.”

Joshua’s breath broke again. He didn’t speak. He didn’t explain. He didn’t say anything else.

He just stayed there — in the hallway outside NICU, in his brother’s arms, with the truth finally spoken and everything else still hidden.

The machines kept breathing for his son.

The monitors kept blinking.

The cold air kept settling around them.

Sophia lay unconscious in SICU.

The baby remained unnamed.

The world held its breath.

Hour to hour.

Room to room.

Nothing letting go.