Cameron’s helping. He got me some Valium, said it was safer than cutting me off cold turkey. We don’t know exactly what they were dosing me with, but from what I described, he suspects it was something close to diazepam. That would make sense, he said. Honestly, I don’t understand the science behind it—and I don’t really need to. He knows what he’s doing, and I trust him.
I’m just glad I can keep taking it. It softens the edges. Helps with the pain.
Helps me forget.
Helps me not feel what I felt when I saw what they did to Lea.
But the nights are still hard. When the terrors come—when the images press in and the screams echo—I need him there. He has to hold me until the shaking stops, even now.
Boomerang meows at my feet, winding between my legs like he used to, tail flicking with impatience. The sound is comforting and familiar. It’s good to know his presence hasn’t changed, even if everything else has.
“Okay, okay, I’ll feed you,” I sigh, giving in as I shuffle through the kitchen for his feeder. He chirps approvingly, hopping up onto the counter like he owns the place. And maybe he does now.
Cameron must like him more than he lets on. While I was gone, he bought Boomerang a new scratch post and a plush bed that’s twice the size of the old one. Now he parades around like he’s royalty, padding across the hardwood like the house is his kingdom. It makes me smile—just a little.
But the rooms are still so quiet. That creeping kind of quiet that gets under your skin. The kind that reminds you of how much space grief takes up.
Cameron’s been locked in his office most days with Talia, planning God knows what. She stayed with me while he was out the other night, dressed in an all-black suit, an outfit that is almost as good as the combative gear.
She said something about an auction—but I tuned out the moment the word landed. It’s too soon and far too familiar. It echoed in the worst parts of me, brought up too many images I wasn’t ready to face.
He’s trying to fix it all. That’s what I tell myself. That’s all I need to know.
But something’s shifting inside me.
Until now, I’ve avoided the memories—kept them buried in some locked vault in the back of my brain. But I think I’m ready to open it. I think it’s time Cameron knew what they did to me. Not so he’ll look at me with pity—I can’t stomach that—but so he’ll understand the shadows I’m dragging behind me. The ones that started long before the auction, long before Lea died. The ones that have been with me since I was a child.
I want to tell him everything.
The floor creaks softly behind me, and I turn just as Cameron steps into the room, measuring my dose of liquid Valium down to the millilitre. His focus is a calmness I crave at the minute. But when he looks at me, his eyes soften—like he can already tell I’ve changed.
“Time for your dose,” he says gently, offering me the tiny vial.
I take it without a word.
“Come on, let’s get you back to bed,” he says, guiding me gently up the stairs, his hand warm against the curve of my back. But I falter, one foot hovering mid-step as the Valium begins to take hold. The world softens at the edges, but something inside me stays sharp.
“I need to tell you something,” I say, steadier than I expected. The words land with weight.
He stops at the top, turning toward me, brow lifted, gaze curious but cautious. “Okay?”
“I need to tell you what happened.”
There’s a beat of silence, thick as molasses.
“Okay,” he says again, gentler this time. “But in five minutes, you’re not gonna make much sense. Tell me when you wake up, yeah? I’ll still be here. You know that.”
He’s right. He always is. He knows how I unravel when the drugs hit full force—knows not to leave, not to drift even a room away.
I nod, but the ache doesn’t fade. Not the one curling inside me when I look at him.
God, is it possible he’s more beautiful now?
The scar cleaving through his cheek and across his eye should horrify me—it’s a jagged reminder of everything we lost, everything he endured because of me. That milky white eye, once warm and alive, now distant, ghosted. But it doesn’t lessen him. If anything, it deepens the infatuation.
He’s still infuriatingly perfect.
Olive skin stretched over sharp muscle. A frame sculpted by years of grit. That dark stubble dusting his jaw—rough and unapologetic—makes him look like he was born to survive chaos. And maybe he was. Maybe we both were.
