Chapter 89 She's dead
Chapter 89 She's dead
Elara’s POV
The first thing I felt was pain, a dull, throbbing ache that pulled me slowly back into consciousness. It took me a moment to register that I was lying on something soft instead of cold, damp earth or rough stone. My fingers curled instinctively into smooth bedsheets, and that small difference was enough to make my eyes snap open.
The ceiling above me was unfamiliar, and confusion washed over me in a heavy wave. I pushed myself upright too quickly. A sharp throb exploded through my skull, forcing me to squeeze my eyes shut again as a low groan escaped my lips.
Fragments of memory crashed into me then—the dark tunnel, my brother’s hand in mine, the rush of fresh night air, Genevieve’s face, and finally the sharp sting of the dart in my neck. I gasped, my hand flying up to the side of my throat. My fingers met only a small, neatly placed bandage.
How…?
The last thing I remembered was Genevieve smiling at me as the world dissolved into darkness. So how was I here now? My breathing quickened as my gaze darted around the room. It wasn’t a prison cell, nor the infirmary, and certainly not anywhere inside Zachariah’s mansion.
Slowly, familiar details began to surface. A long black coat hung neatly over the back of a chair. A silver dagger rested on a nearby table beside several stacked books, and the faint scent of cedarwood and spice lingered in the air. Recognition hit me all at once.
Vincent’s room.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the protests from my aching body. The moment my bare feet touched the floor, a sharp sting shot through my ankle. I glanced down and saw fresh bandages wrapped carefully around the cuts I had barely noticed while crawling through the tunnel. Someone had tended to them.
My heart tightened with a confusing mix of emotions. Questions flooded my mind, but before I could sort through them, the bedroom door handle turned.
The door opened, and Vincent stepped inside carrying a breakfast tray in one hand and a small leather first-aid box in the other. The moment his eyes landed on me standing beside the bed, he let out a slow breath.
“I was wondering how long you’d pretend to be asleep,” he said quietly, setting the tray and box down on the table before closing the door behind him.
“I wasn’t pretending,” I muttered, though my voice lacked any real conviction.
His gaze drifted down to my bare feet. “You shouldn’t be standing.”
“I’m fine.”
“You nearly fell over when you got out of bed.”
Heat crept into my cheeks. “I said I’m—”
“Fine,” he finished for me, his tone calm and knowing. “I know.”
Without waiting for permission, he pulled a chair in front of me and opened the first-aid box. “Sit.”
“I’m capable of—”
“Elara.” There was no anger in his voice, only that quiet firmness that somehow always cut through my resistance.
For reasons I couldn’t explain, my legs obeyed before my pride could catch up. I sat.
Vincent crouched in front of me and gently lifted my injured foot onto his knee. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” He began unwrapping the old bandage with careful hands.
“I can clean it myself.”
“No, you can’t.”
I folded my arms across my chest, stubbornness rising even as pain flared when the cool antiseptic touched the deeper cuts. I looked away, refusing to let him see me wince.
Only after several moments did I find the courage to ask the question that had been burning inside me. “My brother.”
Vincent didn’t pause in his work. “He’s safe.”
The tight knot in my chest loosened just a little. “Where is he?”
“In another room. A few bruises and exhaustion, but nothing life-threatening.”
I let out a shaky breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Can I see him?”
“When you’ve eaten.”
I frowned as he secured a fresh bandage around my ankle and finally looked up at me. “You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I didn’t ask.” He stood, moved the first-aid box aside, and slid the breakfast tray toward me. The warm scent of bread, eggs and tea filled the room, and only then did my empty stomach betray me with a quiet rumble.
Still, I hesitated, too many other fears pressing on me. “What about Raye?”
Vincent’s movements stilled for the briefest second—barely noticeable, yet I caught it.
“Vincent,” I pressed, my fingers tightening on the edge of the chair. “Where’s Raya?”
He turned to face me, his expression calm but guarded. “She’s alive.”
Relief flooded through me so strongly that my eyes stung. “Thank God…” The words slipped out in a whisper.
Then another fear rose. “What about her mother?”
The silence that followed stretched unbearably long. Vincent lowered his eyes and busied himself with the already-closed first-aid box.
My heartbeat quickened. “Vincent…”
He remained silent, and a cold dread began to spread through me like ice water.
“No,” I whispered.
When he finally met my gaze, I saw something in his eyes I had rarely seen before—deep, genuine regret.
“Vincent…”
“She’s dead.”
Vincent's words hung between us like a blade.
"She's dead."
For a moment, I simply stared at him.
"No..."
The word came out as nothing more than a whisper.
My vision blurred as tears filled my eyes. I remembered the woman who had risked everything to help us, who had endured years of suffering yet still found the strength to protect her daughter. The woman who wanted nothing but freedom.
She was gone.
I covered my mouth, trying to stop the sob that escaped anyway.
"I'm sorry," Vincent said quietly.
I squeezed my eyes shut before taking a shaky breath.
"...Raye."
The name trembled on my lips.
"I need to see her."
Vincent's expression tightened.
"You can't. she needs time. and she doesn't want to talk or speak to anyone.."