Page 127

"You should lie back down," Beckett says, not touching me but clearly wanting to. "You need more rest."

"I need a shower." The words come out stronger than I expected. The need to wash away what remains of that night suddenly overwhelming.

Something like understanding flickers across his face. "Of course."

He helps me stand, his hands steady under my elbows when my legs threaten to give out. I'm wearing one of his shirts, the fabric swimming on my smaller frame. I don't ask who undressed me or how I got into this. Some questions are better left unasked.

The bathroom is attached to the bedroom—a sleek, modern space with a walk-in shower enclosed in clear glass. Beckett turns on the water, adjusting the temperature with practiced precision.

"Can you..." I begin, uncertain how to ask for what I need.

"I'll be right outside the door," he says, already understanding. "Call if you need anything."

The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I'm left alone with my reflection in the mirror. A stranger stares back at me—pale, haunted, bruised along one cheekbone where Christopher's hand connected. My neck still bears the faint red line where the ribbon had been.

I look away, unable to face what I see there.

The shower is hot, almost scalding, but I welcome the heat as it pounds against sore muscles. I scrub every inch of skin until it's raw and pink, as if I could wash away more than just the physical reminders. The bandages on my wrists get soaked, but I don't care. I'll ask for new ones later.

I don't know how long I stand there, letting the water pummel me, before a soft knock comes at the door.

"Luna?" Beckett's voice, edged with concern. "Are you alright?"

I turn off the shower, suddenly aware of how much time must have passed. "Yes," I call back, surprised to find I mean it. "I'll be out in a minute."

Clean clothes wait for me on the counter—soft gray leggings and a loose sweater that looks new. Things bought specifically for me. I dress slowly, careful of my bruised ribs, and step back into the bedroom to find Beckett waiting, expression carefully controlled.

"Better?" he asks.

I nod, not trusting my voice. The simple question contains too much—concern, guilt, a desperate need to make things right that I don't know how to address.

"You should eat something," he says, gesturing toward the door. "I've made soup."

The thought of eating turns my stomach, but I follow him anyway, through a short hallway into an open-plan living area. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over a wooded landscape I don't recognize. The kitchen gleams with stainless steel and white marble.

And on the counter, a steaming bowl of soup waits beside fresh bread.

"You cooked?" I ask, unable to hide my surprise.

The corner of his mouth lifts in what might be the ghost of a smile. "I contain multitudes."

I sit at the counter, picking up the spoon more to please him than from any real hunger. The soup is simple but good—chicken and vegetables in a clear broth. I manage a few spoonfuls before setting it aside.

"Thank you," I say, the words inadequate for what I mean.

He nods once, accepting what I can offer. "How are you feeling? Truthfully."

I consider lying, offering reassurance that neither of us would believe. But the events of the past months—of the past days—have burned away any possibility of pretense between us.

"I don't know," I admit. "I feel... disconnected. Like I'm watching myself from somewhere far away."

"That's normal," he says, his voice gentle in a way I've never heard from him before. "It's your mind protecting you."

"When does it stop?" I ask, hating the vulnerability in the question.

He doesn't offer false comfort or empty platitudes. "When you're ready for it to stop. Not before."

The honesty in his answer makes something in my chest loosen slightly. I look up to find him watching me, his eyes dark with an emotion I can't name.