Page 53

I’m not breathing.

Not really.

There’s air in my lungs, sure, but it feels borrowed. Thin. Like the whole world is holding its breath with me, waiting for someone to break the silence that’s sunk over this grove like a shroud.

Torack’s kneeling in the dirt. Lillian’s in his arms. She’s shaking—tiny tremors that rattle her spine against his chest—and he’s holding her like if he lets go, the entire planet might fall apart. And maybe it will. Honestly, maybe it already has.

I stay still, crouched near the roots of the willow. My fingers itch to organize something. A triage. A schedule. A checklist titled Post-Trauma Protocol: When Your Boss and His Daughter Both Look Like They’ve Been Emotionally Steamrolled. I don’t have that checklist, though.

All I have is this moment.

And the pounding in my ears that won’t quit.

“She’s safe,” I whisper, more to myself than anyone else.

Torack doesn’t move. His eyes are locked on his daughter, and he looks… wrecked. Utterly. Like some invisible hand reached in and pulled all the bones out of his backbone.

“I shouldn’t’ve snapped at her,” he mutters.

“She was trying to help,” I say gently.

His jaw clenches. “And I brushed her off. Again.”

Lillian sniffles. “It’s okay, Daddy.”

“No,” he says, fierce and low. “It’s not.”

I scoot closer, slowly, like approaching a spooked animal. Not because I’m scared of him, but because I know exactly how fragile this moment is. One wrong word and he’ll fold back into himself, armor up, act like everything’s fine when it’s very obviously not.

“You know,” I say, “when I was little, I used to make little ‘certificates’ for my dad. You know, like... World’s Okayest Breakfast Cooker or Champion of Bedtime Story Reruns.”

Lillian’s eyes peek out from behind Torack’s chest.

“He hated them,” I admit. “Said they were a waste of paper. I kept making them anyway. Because some part of me hoped that if I handed him enough macaroni and glue, he’d see me. Like, really see me. Not just the good grades and piano recitals and vacuumed carpet.”

Lillian’s lip wobbles.

Torack swallows hard. He hasn’t blinked in ages. “She made me one.”

I nod. “It was a good one, too. You had tusks.”

A breath hitches in his throat. His shoulders shake once. And then again.

“She thought if she saved something, you’d be proud of her,” I say softly.

He finally looks up. His eyes find mine—and gods, there’s so much pain in them, I almost look away.

But I don’t.

Because this is when he needs me most.

“She wanted you to be proud,” I whisper. “And you are. I know you are. But she needs to hear it.”

He lowers his gaze back to his daughter. Brushes hair from her face with a hand that’s rough and gentle all at once.

“Lillian,” he says. Voice raw. Ragged. “You’re the best thing I’ve ever made.”

Her breath hitches.