Chapter 179 Caiden

Chapter 179 Caiden
Caiden

Graham returned a moment later with a folded stack of clothes held carefully in both hands, as though he had somehow decided that even fabric required gentleness around us now.

“These might fit,” he said, though the uncertainty in his voice suggested he knew perfectly well that they might not.

I looked at the clothes.

Then at him.

Then down at myself.

Wearing only my seal skin had never bothered me before. Among my own people, it would have meant nothing. Even in front of Graham, under any other circumstances, I doubt I would have cared much.

But standing there in his living room, bruised, bandaged, barely upright, and dependent on a human man I had only met once before to help me dress, embarrassment crept hot and unwelcome up the back of my neck.

Graham seemed to notice.

His expression softened.

“You need help.”

It was not a question.

My first instinct was to refuse.

The word almost made it to my tongue.

Then I shifted slightly and pain tore across my ribs so violently that I had to brace one hand against the wall to stay upright.

Right.

Pride could make me an idiot.

I gave a single nod.

Graham did not make a production of it, which I appreciated more than I could explain. He simply led me back down the hall to the bedroom where he had laid out a pair of loose sweatpants and a soft, oversized shirt, then helped me with the same quiet practicality he had shown since we arrived.

Even so, every movement was a lesson in humility.

Lifting my arms was nearly impossible. Twisting was worse. Breathing too deeply sent sharp pain through my side, and though no one had confirmed exactly how many ribs were broken, I was beginning to suspect the answer was most of them.

My hand remained wrapped.

Thick white bandages covered the place where my little finger had been.

I had not looked at it yet.

Not truly.

I knew what was beneath the dressing. I remembered enough of the room, the table, the briefcase, the blade, the pain. I remembered too much, actually.

But seeing it was something else.

Not yet.

Nymora had told me she had cleaned and stitched the wound as best she could on the boat before rewrapping it.

That would have to be enough for now.

By the time Graham helped me into the shirt, sweat had broken across my brow and my legs were shaking badly enough that he pulled a chair behind me before I could pretend I was fine.

I sat.

Breathing carefully.

Slowly.

The simple act of dressing had exhausted me more than some battles.

Graham crouched in front of me, concern written plainly across his face.

“You sure you don’t need a doctor?”

I looked down at the bandages.

At the bruising disappearing beneath borrowed clothes.

At the raw patches of skin along my wrists where chains had rubbed through.

Then I thought of Ronan’s hands.

Nali’s injuries.

Seri’s gunshot wound.

“I don’t know.”

It was the most honest answer I could give.

Graham accepted it with a nod before helping me stand again.

When we returned to the living room, Nymora had finished cleaning Nali.

The difference was astonishing.

Not because Nali looked well.

She did not.

She still looked fragile in a way that made me fill with rage, her skin pale beneath a map of bruises and bandages. But the blood had been washed from her face and arms, and without it, I could see her more clearly.

Could see the woman we knew beneath what those men had done.

As we entered, Nali shuddered.

Everyone froze.

For one awful second, I thought she was waking in pain.

Then her body shifted.

Not violently.

Not with the ragged instability I had seen in the prison room.

Slowly.

Subconsciously.

As though some deep part of her finally understood that she was safe enough to stop fighting.

The seal half of her form receded.

Fur disappeared.

Her legs returned fully human.

And a few moments later, she lay completely herself beneath the ruined cloak.

Nymora exhaled shakily.

“She knows we have her,” she whispered.

No one had to ask what she meant.

Some part of Nali knew she was safe.

Graham stared in silence, clearly trying to process the fact that a half-seal woman had just become fully human on his couch.

To his credit, he only swallowed hard and asked, “Where should I put her?”

“My bed,” he answered himself almost immediately, as if realizing no one else had one to offer. “She can take my bed.”

He lifted Nali again, carefully, her bottom half wrapped in her cloak, and carried her down the hall.

When he returned, Iona was finishing with Ronan.

She had cleaned his face and arms, though his hands remained the worst of it. Even wrapped, they looked brutal. I forced myself to look anyway.

He deserved witnesses.

He deserved for someone to see what he had survived.

Together, Graham and Iona moved him into the bedroom as well, settling him beside Nali with Ronan’s cloak draped securely over his shoulders.

Only after both of them were out of the living room did the house seem to breathe.

A pause settled over us.

Small.

Fragile.

Finn dragged himself upright from the armchair where he had been resting, his injured leg stretched stiffly in front of him.

“I’m going to shower.”

Nymora gave him a tired look.

“You need help with your leg.”

“I do not. I need dignity.”

“You lost that years ago.”

Even exhausted, Finn managed a grin.

Then Iona moved toward him, clearly prepared to assist whether he wanted it or not.

Once they disappeared down the hall, Graham remained standing in the middle of his living room, looking around at the bloodied towels, the bowls of pink water, the discarded bandages, the sleeping wounded, the exhausted warriors, and me.

His face had gone pale again.

“What happened out there?”

The question was quiet.

Not accusing.

Not demanding.

Just horrified.

Nymora sank onto the edge of the coffee table and began telling him.

Not every detail.

But enough.

The camp.

The prisoners.

The medical equipment.

The rescue.

The chase.

Seri.

The wolf.

The whale.

At that part, Graham’s eyes widened so much that, under different circumstances, I might have laughed.

But I could not focus on the story for long.

I had made my way to the couch beside Seri.

She remained unconscious, her breathing steady but deep, as though her body had dragged her far beyond ordinary sleep and refused to let her return until it was ready.

Carefully, ignoring the pain in my ribs, I settled beside her and eased her upper body against mine.

She was warm.

Real.

Here.

Her head rested against my shoulder, and I closed my eyes for a moment as something inside me finally loosened.

I wanted her as close as possible.

Needed it.

Needed to feel her breathing.

Needed to know that if I opened my eyes, she would still be there.

Nymora’s voice continued somewhere across the room, low and steady as she explained the impossible things Seri had done.

Graham listened in stunned silence.

I listened too, but only distantly.

Because Seri was tucked against me, alive and exhausted and far too brave for her own good.

And for the first time since I woke chained to that wall, I felt like the nightmare might actually have ended.