Page 68 of Where The Devil Kneels

Instead of answering, she sits beside me and opens her portfolio. “I’ve started the paperwork to secure protected status for the estate,” she says, her voice strained but professional. “Historical significance, architectural uniqueness, anything to create legal barriers against seizure or demolition.”

I stare at her, uncomprehending. “You want to help protect the estate? After everything you said about it? About Silas?”

She meets my eyes directly, and I see something there I’ve rarely witnessed in my perfect, controlled cousin: vulnerability.

“I still think you’re making dangerous choices,” she says quietly. “I don’t understand your connection to that house or… to him. But I won’t let Garrow’s people seize what’s rightfully yours.”

It’s hard for her to say—I can see it in her tense shoulders and the way her fingers fidget with the papers. This is Maeve’s version of an apology. It’s probably as close as she can get.

“Thank you,” I say simply, too drained for anything more complex.

We sit in silence for a while, the ice between us not quite melted but beginning to thaw. Eventually, Maeve leaves to make calls, promising to return later with updates on the legal protections she’s arranging.

As morning stretches into afternoon, something strange begins to happen. People start arriving, first just a few, then a steady stream. Townspeople, many of whom I recognize only vaguely from grocery store encounters or passing on thestreet, fill the waiting room chairs. They approach me one by one, awkwardly at first, then with growing confidence.

“My brother worked for Garrow Construction in the nineties,” a middle-aged man tells me, cap twisted between his hands. “He found financial records that didn’t add up. The next day, he was gone. Everyone said he’d stolen money and run, but your grandmother—she got him out safely. He’s in Oregon now. Sends postcards every Christmas.”

A young woman with a sleeping toddler on her hip says, “My mom used to clean for your grandmother. She told me stories about strange noises in the walls and about supplies disappearing from the pantry. Said the house helped people who needed it.”

The stories keep coming, each one revealing another part of the estate’s history I never knew. Not all are dramatic. Some are just small, quiet acts of kindness: help given without fuss, shelter offered without questions.

An elderly woman approaches last, her back bent with age, her eyes bright with unshed tears. She takes my hands between her weathered palms, examining my split knuckles with something like approval.

“My sister disappeared in ‘87,” she confesses in a whisper. “Everyone said she ran off, but she’d seen something at Garrow’s hunting lodge. Your house saved her, got her to safety across state lines.” She squeezes my hands gently. “She writes me letters sometimes. No return address. But she’s alive because of your family. Because of that house.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I didn’t know,” I admit. “Not all of it.”

“You know now,” she says simply. “And that’s what matters.”

The double doors swing open, and a hush falls over the crowded waiting room. Dr. Rao emerges, her scrubs spattered with blood but her eyes clear and focused. She scans the room, seemingly unsurprised by the gathering, and walks directly to me.

“He’s stable,” she announces, loud enough for everyone to hear. “The blade missed his heart by centimetres. Remarkable, really. With proper rest and rehabilitation, he should make a full recovery.”

The relief hits me like a physical force, my knees buckling so suddenly that Jonah has to catch my elbow to keep me upright. Around me, the gathered townspeople break into murmurs, part relief, part prayer, part shared understanding of what was nearly lost.

“When can I see him?” I ask, my voice cracking.

“He’s in recovery now. Once he’s settled in a room, I’ll come get you.” Dr. Rao hesitates, then adds more quietly, “He asked for you the moment he regained consciousness. First word out of his mouth.”

Of course it was. He’s been watching over me for months, living in my shadows, protecting me from threats I didn’t even recognize. And now, even wounded, his first thought is still for me.

The waiting room blurs through my tears, but for the first time since the ambulance ride, they aren’t tears of fear. I’ll see him soon. He’s alive. We have time.

Hospital rooms at night do something strange to time. They stretch it out, make it slow and heavy. The lights are dim, and shadows fall long across Silas’s face. He looks younger when he’s asleep. The constant watchfulness is gone, and without it he just looks like a person, dark lashes against cheeks that are still too pale. The bandages on his chest rise and fall with each breath. I’ve been here for hours, holding his hand, my thumb tracing his knuckles without thinking. The nurses stopped trying to make me leave a while ago. Maybe they saw the blood under my fingernails. Maybe they just know what it looks like when someone can’t walk away. Outside this room, the world keeps moving—police statements, legal work, a whole town waking up to what Garrow was. But in here, none of that matters. There’s only the monitor, his chest, and the hope that his eyes might open.

I lean forward and rest my forehead against our clasped hands. “You know,” I whisper, “for a professional guardian, stepping in front of knives is a pretty stupid habit.” The joke doesn’t land — my voice cracks halfway through, snagged on the memory. The blade. His body moving between us before I could even react.

The machines keep going, steady and relentless, telling me his heart is beating, his blood is moving, his lungs are working. Dr. Rao walked me through the surgery in careful clinical language — damaged tissue, repaired vessels, how close it was — but honestly, all I heard was that he would live. Everything else after that was just noise.

I don’t realize I’ve dozed off until movement beneath my hand jolts me awake. Silas’s fingers twitch against mine, and my head snaps up to find his eyes, those watchful, intense eyes that have followed me through shadows for months, open and focused directly on me.

“Elara,” he whispers, my name rough around the edges from disuse and the breathing tube they only recently removed.

“Hey,” I reply stupidly, intellect deserting me now that he’s finally conscious. “You’re awake.”

A ghost of his usual half-smile touches his lips. “Apparently.” His gaze moves beyond me, taking in the hospital room, the medical equipment, the darkness outside the window. “How long?”

“Almost eighteen hours since surgery.” My hand tightens around his. “You scared the hell out of me.”