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Because I know when I am not welcome.

When I am the wolf at the door they’d rather pretend isn’t there.

And still—I can’t take my eyes off her.

The sound of them is maddening.

Laughter. Voices tripping over one another to reach her first. All of them hovering around her like she’s something fragile, a flame they’re terrified will gutter out if they don’t feed it enough attention.

I watch the way she softens around them. Lets Riven lean in too close. Lets Caspian murmur something low enough that it earns a smile. Silas clinging to her like he’s never learned boundaries. And Orin—he walks beside her like he belongs there, like he’s carved out a space next to her and dared anyone to argue with him about it.

I did this. I ripped the foundation out from under her feet and then acted like I was surprised when she ran. The longer I stand here, the more I see it—the distance between us is a canyon now,and every second I let it stretch, it becomes something that can’t be crossed.

And I’m the one who broke it open.

I clear my throat, sharp enough to cut through their noise. The sound echoes off the cracked stones of the cathedral walls, sharp enough to snare their attention. The smiles drop. Caspian’s gaze flicks to me, cool. Riven glares. Silas scowls like I just pissed in his drink. Orin’s expression is blank, unreadable.

And her.

She doesn’t even look at me.

I force the words out anyway. "A minute. Alone."

The way their shoulders stiffen, the way Orin looks like he’s already debating whether he’ll let me near her, makes me want to flay my own skin off.

It’s Elias who finally mutters something crude under his breath and herds the others toward the cathedral doors, his hand brushing her shoulder in a way I shouldn't notice, shouldn’t resent.

They leave us standing in the courtyard like opponents about to draw blood.

She doesn’t move.

I swallow hard, each word a blade lodged in my throat.

"You don’t have to look at me," I say quietly. "But you need to hear this."

Her arms are crossed over her chest, her posture sharp, a fortress.

I deserve it.

"I know," I continue, voice rough, "I said things to you that can’t be unsaid. That’s the point—I made sure they’d stick. I knew exactly how to cut you, and I did it anyway."

Her gaze doesn’t lift. But her fingers twitch against her sleeve.

"I don’t apologize," I tell her. "You know that. I don’t regret. I don’t bend."

I take a breath that feels like razors slicing down my throat.

"But I was wrong."

Her chin lifts, eyes finally cutting to mine. There’s nothing soft there. No forgiveness. Good. I don’t deserve it.

"I need you to come home."

Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak. She’s waiting for the rest. And she should. She’s smarter than all of us.

"I don’t care if you hate me," I say, voice low, vicious in its honesty. "I don’t care if you never look at me again. But this—" I gesture vaguely at the distance between her and the rest of them. "This fracture isn’t you. And I don’t know how to fix it without you."

For a moment, the wind cuts between us, sharp and cold.