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I recall the look in her eyes when she was faced with the three men surrounding her. She wasn’t scared. If anything, she seemed relieved at the idea of her possible death. And that terrified me.

It terrifies me what she has been reduced to. She’s not the Maya I remember, not the brave and witty girl who rescued us from hell.

I return to her apartment and put away the groceries as I wait for the furniture. I booked the one-hour delivery, paying over the top for the late-night inconvenience to the shop owners.

As the furniture arrives, my mate sleeps, dead to the world. After I set it all up, I place her on the soft, new mattress, where she curls up into a ball.

I allow myself this one night, this stolen time with her. Tomorrow I’ll leave, as she asked. But tonight, I hold her as she sleeps, memorizing the feel of her weight against me, the rhythm of her breathing, the scent of her hair.

My mate. My heart.

Dawn finds me still awake, still holding her. Gently, I disentangle myself, pulling the blanket over her as the air conditioner drones on. In her kitchen, I make coffee, toast, eggs—a simple meal that won’t aggravate what will undoubtedly be a severe hangover when she wakes.

I leave the breakfast on her new coffee table beside a glass of water and painkillers. Then, forcing myself not to look back, I slip out the door and into the morning light.

Two days later,I’m back outside GenTherapeutics, watching the entrance. A message from Erik waits on my phone for a reply—the investigation has been reopened, discreetly. He has found inconsistencies already. The palace surveillance footage from that night is missing. The guard who should have been stationed near the cottages claims he was reassigned at the last minute.

But none of that matters if Maya continues on this path. The alcohol, the aloneness, the carelessness with her own safety—she’s killing herself, and I don’t know how to stop her.

The building’s doors open, and she emerges. But instead of turning onto her usual path home, she walks directly toward me.

For a moment, I think I’ve been caught—that she has somehow sensed me watching her. But there’s no surprise in her expression as she approaches, just weary resignation.

“How long have you been following me?” she asks without preamble.

“Since the day we spoke,” I admit, seeing no point in lying.

She nods, as if confirming a suspicion. “I want you to stop.”

“Those men could have hurt you.”

“Maybe that would have been for the best.” The casualness with which she says it saddens me.

“You don’t mean that.”

She shrugs, indifferent. “What I mean doesn’t matter. I need you to leave me alone, Griffin. I meant what I said—I won’t help you or your kingdom.”

“This isn’t about the kingdom anymore.”

“What is it about, then?” she challenges.

“You.” I step closer, unable to help myself. “The way you’re living—the drinking, the isolation…You’re hurting yourself, Maya.”

Her laugh is bitter. “Is that what this is? You’re concerned for my health?”

“Yes,” I say simply.

“Well, don’t be. I don’t need or want your concern. I don’t need or want anything from you. Just leave me alone.”

She turns to walk away. I catch her wrist, unable to let her go like this.

“Do you know what happens to humans who drink the way you do?” I ask, desperate to make her understand. “Liver damage. Brain damage. Early death.”

“So?”

The casual dismissal of her own life infuriates me. “Is that what you want? To die slowly, painfully?”

“What I want,” she says, pulling her wrist from my grasp, “is for you to disappear from my life. Again.”