“Three months ago, if someone had told me I’d be having this conversation, I would have walked away. But I felt you in my head tonight, Vivienne. Clear as day. ‘When I drop, shoot.’ And I knew exactly what you meant, exactly when to move. That wasn’t training or instinct. That was you.”
“And you trusted it. Trusted me, even though everything you’ve been taught says it’s impossible.” She reached up with her uninjured hand and touched his jaw. “That’s what makes you my anchor, Brooks. Not that you believe in everything I do, but that you trust me enough to act even when you don’t understand.”
His hand came up to cover hers, pressing her palm against his face. “I’m starting to understand. Not all of it, maybe not most of it. But enough to know that what happened between us tonight was real. That this”—he gestured between them—”whatever this is, it matters.”
“It does.” Her throat tightened. “More than I expected it to.”
The moment stretched between them. Then Sullivan appeared with a thermos of coffee.
“Winston’s demanding a lawyer and medical attention. In that order.” The chief shook his head. “Thinks he can still negotiate his way out of this.”
“Let him try,” Vivienne said. “The evidence speaks for itself.”
As the paramedics loaded her into the ambulance, Brooks climbed in beside her despite their protests.
“I’m riding with her,” he said flatly. “Non-negotiable.”
Porter didn’t argue. She just nodded and stepped back, already on her phone coordinating the aftermath.
Inside the ambulance, Vivienne leaned against Brooks’s shoulder, exhausted beyond words. Her abilities felt raw, like she’d used muscles she didn’t know she had.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For trusting me. For hearing me when I called.”
“Partners,” Brooks said. He took her hand carefully, mindful of the bruised wrists. “Always.”
The ambulance pulled away from the lighthouse, its beacon dark and silent behind them. But Vivienne could feel the difference in the air, in the spiritual energy of the place.
The lighthouse was finally at peace. Lily was at rest. The Aldrich empire was broken.
And somehow, impossibly, she and Brooks had found a way to understand each other that went deeper than words—a connection forged through danger and trust and the desperate need to save each other. He’d opened himself to her world, and in doing so, had discovered he had some small ability to sense what she sensed. Not the full gift her family carried, but something. A bridge between their two ways of knowing.
Whatever came next, they would face it together.
The ambulance lights flashed against the rain, carrying them both toward safety and whatever future awaited two people who’d learned to trust what couldn’t be measured or explained.
EIGHTEEN
brooks
The hospital waitingroom smelled of industrial disinfectant and burnt coffee.
Brooks sat in a plastic chair that dug into his shoulder blades, watching rain streak down the windows. Three a.m. The dead hour when exhaustion made everything feel unreal. Across from him, Sullivan dozed with his chin on his chest, coffee cooling in his hand.
They’d been here for two hours while doctors examined Vivienne. Bruised ribs, possible concussion, lacerations on her wrists from the zip ties, that split lip Winston had given her. The physical damage was straightforward. What worried Brooks was the other kind—the toll using her abilities had taken.
He’d seen her collapse in the tunnels weeks ago after that episode with Lily’s spirit. Watched her shake and go pale after touching objects that carried too much death. Tonight she’d pushed herself further than ever before, reaching across the space between them with enough force that he’d felt her thoughts in his head.
When I drop, shoot.
Clear as if she’d spoken aloud. Clearer, maybe, because it had bypassed his ears entirely and gone straight into his mind.
Brooks rubbed his eyes. A month ago he would have called this exhaustion talking, his brain trying to rationalize split-second timing as something supernatural. But he knew what he’d experienced. Knew it the same way he’d known Vivienne was in danger before his phone rang, the same way he’d sensed her fear choking him when Winston first grabbed her.
The connection was real. He just didn’t know what to do with that information.
“Detective Harrington?” A nurse appeared in the doorway, young and tired. “Ms. Hawthorne is asking for you.”
Brooks stood, his body protesting. His shoulder ached where he’d hit the lighthouse wall ducking Winston’s shot. Tomorrow he’d have bruises. Tonight he just needed to see Vivienne.
