Chapter 31: Eden

My throat hurts.

It’s the first thing I notice when I open my eyes. Not the dull ache in my joints or the weight behind my eyes—just the rawness in my voice, like it’s been scraped out of me and left on the basement floor.

I don’t try to speak. I just breathe. Let the silence stretch, fill, settle.

My body doesn’t tremble. My hands aren’t shaking. I don’t feel fragile.

I feel… aware.

The hollowness is still there, sitting low in my gut like a stone, but it’s not the same as before. It’s not grief. It’s not sorrow. It’s something colder. Cleaner. Like clarity. Like the world finally looks the way it always was and I just stopped pretending it didn’t.

I push the covers off and swing my legs over the bed. My feet touch the cold floor, and it grounds me. I don’t cry. I don’t fall. I move.

Dressing is easy. I don’t think about it. I pull on a black tank top and old jeans. I braid my hair back tight. No softness. No distractions. I look in the mirror and don’t recognize the girl staring back.

That’s a good thing.

The floor creaks as I walk into the kitchen. Gio is nursing a mug of coffee at the table. Elio is leaned against the counter, scrolling through something on his phone. Salvatore is already standing, arms crossed, his eyes locked on me the moment I appear.

He’s watching me like I’m a glass about to crack.

I ignore it.

I go to the sink. Fill a glass. Drink half of it without stopping.

Then I speak.

“Who handles security here?”

Elio lifts an eyebrow. “We all do.”

“Show me.”

Salvatore pushes off the counter. “Eden—”

“Show me,” I say again, calm and firm.

He hesitates. Then nods.

No one questions me.

Ten minutes later, we’re in the office. Elio rolls out maps and rotations. Gio explains watch patterns, the times they switch shifts. I listen without interruption, my arms crossed, my expression neutral. Salvatore stays back, quiet, letting the others speak.

I ask questions. Specific ones. I want to know how long it takes for someone to breach the north side of the property. What angle the cameras miss near the tree line. Who watches the watchers.

They answer.

And just like that, the balance shifts.

I don’t belong to this house.

I’m commanding it.

When we finish, I turn to Salvatore. “Don’t hover around me.”

His brow furrows. “I’m not—”

“You are.” I meet his eyes. “I know you love me. But don’t love me in a way that keeps me blind. If I’m going to survive this, I need to see.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then nods once.

I leave the room without waiting for more.

Later that afternoon, I sit alone on the back porch with my gun in my lap. It’s not loaded. I don’t need it to be. The weight is enough. The steel against my palm feels like a heartbeat I can trust.

The sky is overcast. Birds are loud in the distance, but everything around me feels unnaturally still.

I rest my hand over my stomach.

The silence stretches.

“You scare me,” I whisper to the child I might be carrying.

It’s strange. The words feel like they come from someone else. From a version of me I haven’t met yet.

“I don’t know if I’ll love you the right way. I didn’t have a good example. My mother…”

My mouth twists. The word feels dirty in my mouth.

“My mother gave me away.”

It’s the first time I’ve said it aloud.

I don’t cry.

I just feel cold.

I rub slow circles against the softness of my shirt.

“I think I’d die for you. But I don’t know if I can live for you.”

And that’s the truth. Life feels heavier than death. But I’m still here. Still trying.

Still fighting.

That night, after the house has gone quiet, I sit on my bed with the light off and stare at the door. The one I keep locked now. I’m not afraid of anyone breaking in.

I’m afraid of what I’ll lose if I let someone close.

Salvatore hasn’t knocked. Not once. But I know he’s out there. He always is. I can feel him—this quiet gravitational pull just beyond the wall.

I think about his face in the basement. The moment I carved my initial into a stranger’s chest and didn’t flinch. The way he looked at me after, like he wasn’t sure if I was something holy or something cursed.

I think about how I wanted to be both.

I think about how much I feel for him. Too much.

I love him. I do.

But love makes you soft. It makes you hesitate. It makes you wonder if vengeance is still worth it when someone might not look at you the same afterward.

I can’t afford hesitation.

And yet… I can’t stop the way I look at him when he isn’t watching.

I can’t stop the way I hope he brushes his fingers against mine when he passes by.

Love isn’t safe. But it’s already in me.

Midnight passes.

I rise slowly. Pad to the door. I rest my hand against the cool wood. Then, with a breath I don’t realize I’ve been holding, I twist the lock and open it.

He’s sitting on the floor outside.

Like he has been every night.

His head lifts. His eyes find mine, sharp and aching.

Neither of us says anything for a beat.

Then I step back.

Just enough.

Invitation.

He stands.

He doesn’t rush.

He enters the room like it’s sacred.

When he closes the door behind him, I face him.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whisper.

He watches me, cautious. Gentle. Terrified, maybe.

I shake my head. “But I don’t want to be alone.”

I drop my eyes. “Can you… hold me?”

He doesn’t speak.

He just crosses the space and wraps his arms around me like I’m something precious and dangerous all at once.

I press my face into his chest and breathe him in. My fists curl in the fabric of his shirt. His hand moves slowly up and down my back.

And for the first time in days, I let myself be soft.

Not because I’m weak.

But because strength isn’t always sharp.

Sometimes strength is letting yourself be held when the world is telling you to harden.

Sometimes strength is saying I need this.

And tonight, I do.