Page 199 of Because I Killed Him
“No, Char. Take your exam. Meet me at the hospital afterward.”
She starts to argue, but I’m already gone, forcing myself down the stairs as fast as I can.
Below, the low-citizen levels are hushed. Greens, Oranges, and Purples stand in their rows, watching me. Their eyes lift to meet mine as I pass, lit with a quiet, burning pride. The kind that hides in silence, in survival, in the moment one of their own does what they’ve always dreamed: striking back. And they’re holding it like a banner between them.
I can’t bear it.
I push through their stares and step into the corridor, where Edmund is already ahead. The elevator must’ve just let him off. His strides are long and steady, with no sign of shock remaining.
“Edmund.” My voice cracks as it echoes down the hall.
He pauses for a moment, his hand tremoring. Then he clenches it, faces me, and says, “Loredana, I need time.”
He turns and keeps walking.
“Edmund,” I cry again, louder now, limping after him with all my strength. “Please—stop.”
When he rounds the bend, my chest caves. My brace catches on a groove in the floor, and I fall hard, my knees slamming against the marble.
“Please,” I cry.
But he’s already gone.
My head drops, and the sound that tears out of me is broken.
The hardest part about having daughters is knowing you can only protect them until they fall in love. After that, all you can do is hope they survive it. Because mothers cannot heal such wounds. We can only hold them while they cry, while their hearts bleed and break, and try not to let our own hearts break with them.
—EVELYN WALDSTEN
CHAPTER 47
The hospital room echoes with the beeping of scanners, the whir of synthetic-tissue printers, and the hiss of fluid pumps. A team of Pinkies moves around me, checking vitals and adjusting IVs as they monitor each stage of regrowth. Three more days, they say, until the muscle and skin on my left leg fully heal and I can walk without the brace.
But I hardly notice the robots. I lie still on the bed, my head turned toward the window, watching the pale wash of afternoon light fade into dusk. Mascara crusts the corners of my eyes, dried in streaks from when the crying stopped hours ago. What’s left now is a dull, silent ache that makes me feel like I’ll never draw a full breath again.
I keep replaying every choice I made, every moment I could’ve told Edmund, from the yacht to the elevator. If I’d spoken then, it would’ve hurt. But not like this.
I think back to Rosamund, when she tried to shove a saber into my hand on the yacht, daring me to fight Irene. The moment I let the saber fall to the deck, as if the blade had cut me, was when Rosamund knew. It wasn’t fear. It was something else. From there, she dug until she found the sealed report on Charles. While I was unconscious in this bed, she pieced the truth together, building her case like a pyre, then struck the match.
Now, I’m burning in the aftermath.
Charlotte sits in the hospital chair beside me, her hand wrapped around mine. She hasn’t let go once, not even to check her Bond. Every so often, her eyes drift to my hands, as if she’s still trying to process the sight of me drenched in blue blood and capable of such violence. But she holds back her questions, her thumb tracing slow, steady circles over my knuckles.
I don’t thank her. I couldn’t even if I tried. But I know she doesn’t need words. One glance tells us when to speak, when to stay silent, and when to hold each other through the pain.
I love her. I need her. And she already knows.
Light drains from the room as the sun sinks behind the campus buildings. Evening gathers, violet and starless, softening the edges of the windowpanes until the world outside turns dark. I lie still and watch the world around me fade, feeling empty now. There’s nothing left to cry.
Somewhere in that vacant space, I know it wasn’t impulse that made me wish I could’ve answered Edmund differently in that elevator. What I feel for him has taken root in my chest, grown through the walls of me, and if I try to tear it out, my heart will tear with it.
It’s love.
Real and torturous.
Because only love could hurt like this.
When morning comes, there’s still no word from Edmund. The only clue about his state of mind is a text from Dickie:“Sorry, Loredana. It’s bad. Real bad. I gotta go dark for a bit. But if you need anything, I’ll find a way to get it to you.”
