41: SHADOWS OF INDIFFERENCE

**CELESTE**

He was twitching. Limbs jerking violently against the ground like he had no control over his own body. His claws—those monstrous things—were dug deep into the dirt, raking the soil apart as if he could claw his pain out from beneath it. Every part of him trembled, spasmed, convulsed in sharp, disjointed rhythm.

I stood there, arms crossed, cold to the bone. I should’ve walked away.

Every instinct inside me was screaming at me to leave him there. To turn around and never look back. After everything he’d done—after all the names he’d called me, the silences he shoved between us, the warmth he’d dangled just long enough for me to fall—I should have run.

But I didn’t.

I just stood there like a fool, watching him suffer, and I told myself it was okay to feel nothing. That I could be indifferent. That I was indifferent.

Then he moved.

Just a hand. Just the slow, shaking extension of one bloodied, trembling hand. Reaching for me. Reaching like he didn’t even know he was doing it. Like something in him—the part that still remembered what it meant to be held—was searching.

And that was all it took.

I hated myself as I stepped closer. I hated myself as I knelt down. I hated myself more than I ever had when I slid my fingers into his.

The moment I touched him, he stilled.

It wasn’t immediate, but I felt it. The shift. His body stopped convulsing. His breath—ragged and wild just moments ago—began to slow. A low sound escaped him, something between a groan and a sigh, like his soul had been momentarily returned.

Then the change began.

His back arched as his spine snapped back into place, the grotesque stretching and cracking of bones reshaping themselves. His claws pulled back into hands, fingers lengthening, becoming human again. The fur that had consumed his arms and chest shriveled into skin.

His face—twisted with pain, twisted with that familiar inner war—finally calmed.

And when it was over, when the creature was gone, Elijah lay there—bare, bruised, blood-streaked—panting like he’d just come back from death.

Relief flickered over his features.

And despite everything I’d told myself, I felt that same relief echo inside me. Stupid, soft, damning.

My fingers were still threaded through his. I didn’t know when I’d started trembling. But when he opened his eyes—those dark, too-knowing eyes—I hesitated only a second before trying to help him up.

“Don’t,” he snapped, smacking my hand away like I was filth.

The sound of it cracked something in me.

Not my hand. Not my body. Me.

He pushed himself off the ground without another word and stormed away, dragging the last of his pain behind him like a shadow. No thank you. No glance back.

Just gone.

I sat there for a moment, stunned, hand still hanging where he’d struck it away. Then the shame hit me. Then the anger.

What the hell was I thinking?

Of course that was how this would end. Of course he would take what he needed and throw me aside like I was nothing. That’s who he was. That’s who he’d always been.

I stood up so fast I made myself dizzy.

I didn’t even brush the dirt from my dress. I just turned and walked, jaw clenched, eyes stinging. Fury poured through me with every step.

“I should’ve let you rot,” I muttered. “I should’ve walked the other way.”

I should have let him suffer. I should’ve walked away the moment I saw him twitching, pathetic and broken. But no—I reached for him. I helped him. Like some stupid, sentimental fool. And for what? So he could shove me away the second he could stand on his own two feet again? So he could treat me like nothing, like I was the disease infecting his life instead of the one who just saved it?

Gods, why do I keep doing this?

Why do I keep showing him mercy when he’s done nothing but twist it into a weapon?

Every time I try to touch the good in him, he burns me for it. Every. Damn. Time. And I always swear it’s the last. That I’ll never fall for his wounded silences or the pain behind his eyes again. But then he reaches for me and I—I always give in.

There’s something wrong with me.

Because even now, even after that slap, after he stormed off like I disgusted him, I don’t hate him. I want to—but I don’t. And I think that’s what hurts the most. 

The wind picked up as I reached the edge of the clearing, rustling the branches above me like a whisper. I gritted my teeth and kept walking, biting down on every word I wanted to scream.

Then I stopped.

I didn’t know why—just that something made me freeze.

Shadows.

Two of them. Standing near the trees.

They weren’t just any shadows. They were familiar. The way they leaned. The shape of them. Tall and lean. Broad and quiet.

My heart skipped.

“Hello?” I whispered. “Anyone there?”

I blinked, and the wind shifted.

The shadows shimmered like smoke in sunlight—and vanished.

I took a step forward, eyes scanning the treeline, pulse hammering.

They were gone. Not a trace. Not a sound.

Just me.

Alone.

I stood there in the eerie stillness, breath caught in my throat, heart aching with a thousand unspoken questions. Had they been there? Had they been watching the entire time? Had they seen me help Elijah?

Or had they come for something else?

My skin prickled with unease, and something colder than fear crept beneath my ribs.

For a moment, I wanted to chase after the shadows. To call out. To demand why.

But I didn’t move.

Because a part of me already knew the answer.

And it terrified me more than being alone ever could.