143. FELIX YEATS (POV)

143. FELIX YEATS (POV)
The light in the room is warm, diffuse, like it knows that any brighter glow would be too much for her. The bed in the center looks bigger than before. Far too empty, even with her there. Isabelle is lying down, the sheet pulled up to her waist. Her hair spreads across the pillow in loose waves, but not even that softens what I see.
Her skin is pale—more than it should be. Her lashes don’t move. Not a flicker. Her chest rises and falls slowly, like breathing is just something the body does out of obligation. Cautious, slow, yet rhythmic.
I take two steps, then another.
I sit on the edge of the bed, carefully. The mattress dips under my weight, but she doesn’t react.
Nothing.
No flinch. No change in the rhythm of her breathing.
I reach out my hand. Stop halfway.
Force myself to go on.
I touch her fingers with mine. Her skin is cold, but alive.
Something hits me when I feel no reaction from her to my touch. Something I’ve never felt before. It feels wrong. An invisible snap inside me, like something breaking, choking me.
“What happened to make her like this, looking like she’s in a coma?” I ask the doctor the moment I notice him standing in the doorway.
I keep staring at her face like it’s the first time I’ve seen it. Felix at that college ball, and later, mysterious behind a mask.
The doctor takes longer than I’d like to answer.
“Don’t tell me you’ve lost your tongue… or are you seeing a bogeyman?” I ask, voice low, leaving no room for doubt.
I turn, still sitting on the edge of the bed, my eyes locking with the doctor’s. He blinks, swallows hard.
He knows any word he says—if it doesn’t make me feel sure of it—can be used against him. He has always known that and has always respected it. But his tension never changes; he knows he’s walking through a minefield.
“She’s stable,” he finally says. The words come out quietly. “Her vitals are under control. Blood pressure is slightly low, but within range. Pulse regular, though weak. The fainting could’ve been the result of extreme exhaustion, emotional shock, or…”
“Or?” I cut in, closing the space between us as I stand, running my fingers over my ring.
He hesitates, looks at her. Then, again, at me.
“Or it might have been induced. By accumulated traumatic stress. But we’re waiting on the bloodwork to be sure.”
I lean forward slowly, like that’s the only way to keep control over the anger building inside me—this anger that never fades, not for a single damn minute since all this shit started.
“And how much longer do we have to wait for those results?”
He takes his time—more than he should. And I already know. The answer’s there, caught in his throat, slipping through the teeth of that damned white coat.
“Well…” The doctor raised the clipboard he’d been holding at his side, avoiding my eyes for a second. “...She has a bruise on her left thigh. An entry point. Superficial, but with signs of mild internal trauma. That usually happens when something’s injected directly into the muscle.”
My eyes lock onto him.
“What?”
“It could’ve been some medication. Or not—we’ll only know for sure with the toxicology tests. But whatever was injected… it was done with the intent of leaving her like this.”
I move away from the doctor, placing both hands on my head, fingers running through my hair. I walk over to the opposite wall, pressing my forehead against it as if the cold concrete could somehow put out the fire burning through me.
She was drugged again—once more by that son of a bitch. If I could go back in time, I’d have made him suffer instead of killing him so damn fast.
I squeeze my eyes shut, jaw clenched tight. I feel my jaw crack under the pressure, like my very structure is falling apart without anyone noticing. This woman… this woman made me love the world again. Made me look in the mirror and see something beyond blood. And now, once again, someone tried to take her from me.
I walk back to the bed.
Isabelle is still there—too fragile, too pale. Every breath she takes feels like a test of how much I can endure. The fear starts eating away at me… fear that this simple rhythm of breathing might stop.
I approach slowly. Sit on the edge of the bed and touch her hand gently, as if my touch might hurt her.
“You need to wake up,” I whisper, more to myself than to her. The words scratch in my throat, too quiet.
I run my fingers over her skin, slowly, like I’m memorizing the temperature. Her scent is still there. She’s alive. But what if…? That thought unsettles me, strips away the last bit of hope I’ve been holding onto.
No.
I don’t think.
I look.
“Don’t do this to me, Isabelle. Not now, not after everything. You know me. You know I’d tear the world apart for you… But I don’t know what to do with this. With this damn silence.”
My voice breaks. I swallow hard.
“You pulled me out of the darkness. And now… You go back there alone?”
I gently squeeze her fingers.
“If you die, Isabelle… I’ll kill the rest of the world. One by one, I’ll hunt down the remains of that bastard’s body to make him suffer for every hour you spend with your beautiful eyes shut.”
She doesn’t answer.
But the tip of her finger… moves.
Her fingertip moves. Small, subtle, almost imperceptible—but I see it. I feel it. It’s like the air around us shifted in density, like the universe paused for a second to confirm that it happened. My eyes stay fixed on that hand. I don’t breathe. I don’t think. I stand there, frozen, like an animal on alert—my whole body tense, waiting for the next sign to come. For that tiny proof of life to become something more, something specific, something present.
But nothing happens. That’s it—just a spark.
I should feel relieved. Maybe I should be grateful. But what rises in me isn’t peace. It’s a rage so deep it doesn’t even have a name. A rage that isn’t screamed or unleashed. A rage that implodes in the chest and mixes with fear. Real fear. The kind I don’t know how to handle. That’s not how I was taught. I wasn’t made for this kind of fragility. I wasn’t trained to watch someone I love hang between life and death and be powerless. To not know where the enemy is. To not have a weapon in hand, aimed at the problem.
I bring my hand to her face, brushing the back of my fingers against her cheek. Her skin is still cold, but now… now I swear there’s a hint of color returning. A trace. And that breaks me more than it comforts. Because I realize I could still lose her—even with her right here. Even while touching her. Even while silently whispering her name.
With every second, everything inside me screams for action. For blood. For answers. But my eyes stay fixed on her. On the eyelid that won’t open. On the chest that rises and falls far too slowly. On the half-open mouth, drained.
My hand slips down to her collarbone, brushing the sheet. And then I see the bruise again—that cowardly, dark mark, buried in the curve of her skin like a reminder that she was violated, invaded, marked without my consent. And again, the rage returns. Stronger. Heavier.