Chapter 99 – Recovery Days

Chapter 99 – Recovery Days
(Eden’s POV)

Morning came slow.

For the first time in months, I woke not to chains, not to commands, but to the warmth of bodies flanking me on either side. Levi had fallen asleep half-sprawled across the edge of the bed, his hand still looped loosely around mine. Luca was behind me, steady and silent, one arm curled around my waist like a vow he had no intention of breaking.

It should have felt strange—being caught between them like this—but it didn’t. It felt like safety, like home.

The words from last night circled me even as sunlight crept across the sheets: We love you. My chest squeezed every time I thought about it. I wasn’t ready to give it back, not yet, but knowing it was there, spoken, real—it changed the air I breathed.

When I stirred, Levi was the first to blink awake. His eyes softened instantly. “Hey,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. “You okay?”

I nodded, though my throat felt thick.

Luca pushed up onto one elbow behind me. His hair was mussed, his expression unreadable but gentle. “Did you sleep?”

I swallowed. “Better than I thought I would.”

Neither of them pressed. They only stayed close as I sat up, wrapping the blanket around myself. For once, I didn’t feel small in my own skin.

The day passed slower than I expected. Harper kept herself busy in the kitchen, cooking enough food for an army. She’d drop off a plate in front of me with a look that said don’t argue, so I didn’t. I ate, even when my appetite wavered, because I knew she needed to see it.

The twins barely left my side. If I moved to the couch, they followed. If I wanted tea, they brewed it before I could ask. At first, it suffocated—but slowly, I realized it wasn’t control. It was presence. They weren’t watching me the way Daniel had, waiting for me to break. They were with me, waiting for me to steady.

In the quiet moments, I found myself noticing things again. The view from the penthouse windows, sprawling and alive. The way Luca’s eyes softened when he caught me watching the city lights. The way Levi’s touch lingered at the small of my back when he passed behind me, grounding without claiming.

And laughter. Harper and Levi argued over a card game that afternoon, her voice sharp and teasing, his growling back at her like a big brother he never had. I laughed—really laughed—for the first time in months. The sound startled me.

Harper glanced at me, her grin faltering into something softer. “There she is,” she whispered.

But recovery wasn’t linear. That night, I tried another shower—warm, controlled by me. I thought I could handle it. But halfway through, the rush of steam blurred the mirror, and I saw him behind me again. The ghost of Daniel’s voice slithered through the hiss of water.

I froze, breath catching, panic crawling up my chest. My hands shook as I reached for the knob, fumbling to shut the water off.

The door opened a second later—Levi, wide-eyed, not barging but waiting. “Eden?”

“I can’t—” My voice cracked, hands gripping the sink. “It’s still on me.”

Luca appeared behind him, his gaze sharp, his presence calm. He stepped in slowly, like approaching a skittish animal. “Look at me,” he said gently. “You control this water. No one else. You. If it’s too much, we shut it off and walk out together. Your choice.”

Something in his tone steadied me. I reached and turned the water down to lukewarm. The hiss softened, and with it, so did my pulse.

Levi exhaled and pressed a towel into my hands. “You’re not alone in there anymore. Not ever again.”

When I stepped out, wrapped in soft cotton instead of fear, the three of us didn’t speak about it. They just stayed close until the tremors left my hands.

Later, curled on the couch under a blanket, I whispered what had been sitting in my chest all day. “I don’t know if I can be… normal again.”

Levi frowned. “Normal’s overrated.”

Luca leaned closer, his voice even. “We don’t want normal. We want you. However you are, however you heal.”

Tears stung my eyes. They didn’t push for more words, didn’t ask for promises. They just let me cry, each of them close enough that I didn’t feel the emptiness of the months I’d lost.

By the time I drifted toward sleep again, I realized something: Daniel had stolen time, but not everything.

He hadn’t stolen the way Harper fussed, or the way the twins guarded me without suffocating me, or the possibility that maybe one day, I’d say the words back.

I wasn’t healed. Not yet. But I was starting. And for the first time, that felt like enough.