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Chapter forty-two

Levana

A heavy, jarring thud echoes from down the hallway, loud enough to rattle through the bed frame.

What the hell is that?

I slip out of bed and pad across the floor, careful not to make a sound.

The sight I’m greeted with at the threshold causes every muscle to lock up at once.

Patrick’s in the hallway, outside the back bedroom, hammer in one hand, the other bracing a long plank of wood against the doorframe as he drives a nail into it in hard, brutal swings.

My eyes drag lower to the scraps on the floor that look suspiciously like the dismantled remains of the kitchen chairs.

“Patrick?” I say slowly. But he doesn’t look at me, just nods once toward the door, like that’s explanation enough, like I’m supposed to understand what that means.

Then, without a word, he brushes past me and hurries down the stairs. So I follow him.

The living room looks like a crime scene—splintered wood, torn cushions, the coffee table on its side, completely pulled apart.

“Patrick,” I breathe, stepping into the mess. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer, just picks up a chunk of the broken side table and slams it across the window. The sound of splintering wood and cracking glass makes me flinch. Nails spill from his pocket. He snatches a few up with shaking hands, then starts hammering again like he’s racing against something only he can see.

“You can’t leave,” he mutters. “What if someone takes you? What if they take the babies?”

My stomach roils.

Another board goes up, nailed crooked and too fast. He doesn’t care. His focus is razor sharp, manic.

“They can’t see in that way,” he says. “They won’t even know you’re here.”

I step back instinctively. “Who won’t?”

He turns to me like the answer should be obvious. “Elliot. The nurses. Mara’s locked in now. Properly. She can’t get out. But the others are still a threat.“

My tongue dries up completely.

He’s unraveling right in front of me and the walls are closing in.

“Patrick. I told you, none of them are going to get me, or us, we’re safe.”

Patrick suddenly whips his head toward the ceiling, eyes wide, jaw tight.

“Stop fucking laughing!” he screams.

I jump. My heart nearly stops.

“What the fuck…” I whisper, barely breathing.

He freezes. Still as a statue before he mutters, “That’s actually a really good idea.”

He pulls his phone from his pocket and without hesitation, throws it to the ground. It shatters on impact.

He pulls out mine next.

“No!” I shout as I rush forward, feet slapping against the floor.

But I’m too late.

He hurls it down hard enough to make the walls shake, and the sound it makes when it hits the floor echoes the sound of my heart.

Glass and metal splinter outward, sliding across the floor in every direction.

I skid to my knees, breath catching.

“Patrick, no!” My voice breaks. “There were pictures of Violet on there—”

When his eyes lift, it’s like he’s not even looking at me, but he’s looking through me.

His eyes are too bright, too calm. There’s no regret in them. No softness. Just a flicker of something electric and wrong.

I scrabble at the floor, hands shaking, swiping the glass toward me like I can piece it all back together.

“No,” I sob. “No, no, no—my Violet—my Violet—”

I dig my fingers through the wreckage, grabbing at the warped, bent frame, trying to fit it back together like it might bring her back. Like it might make her face light up again on the screen.

“It’s okay,” he says in a sickeningly gentle voice. “You have us now. All the kids. Me. Fuck Mara—not her. But you have me, and all the kids.”

I shake my head. Hot, salty tears blur everything, dripping down my face, down onto the shattered pieces in front of me. I keep trying to gather them, to hold them all, but the tiny shards push up into the pads of my fingers and my palms, deeper with every swipe, smearing across the fragments of my daughter.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, crouching down beside me. “What did you do?”

He reaches for my hands.

“Don’t touch me,” I snap, not looking up.

He pauses. Just a second. Then tries again. “Come on, baby.”

I snatch my hands back, sharper this time.

“You’re scaring me,” I hiss. “I don’t want you near me.”

“I’m not scaring you,” he says, voice filled with genuine confusion.

“You really are, Patrick.” Fear and frustration clatter in my ribs and force their way into my voice. “This is going too far. I told you I wouldn’t go anywhere, and what do you do with that? You ignore it. You try to barricade me in the damn house.”

I feel him straighten up a little. “I’m not locking you in . I’m keeping people out . So they don’t get you or the babies.”

“Patrick, how the hell are we supposed to get food? Medicine? What if the babies come early? Or what if something goes wrong during the birth? Or after they’re born? What if I get sick after delivery? What then?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “The freezer’s full.”

What the fuck?

That’s it?

I’m listing out every real, terrifying thing that could go wrong, and he says that like it fixes everything. Like a freezer full of goddamn frozen meals is going to help me push out two babies in a locked up house with no doctor, no plan, no anything.

Can he even hear me? Does he even know what either of us is saying?

He’s not okay.

He’s really, truly not okay.

Bile bubbles up my throat.

I should’ve run.

I should’ve fucking run when I had the chance.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Panic floods my body, coursing through every vein. My hands sting, still bleeding, shaking from more than just cuts.

In a split second, I’m pulled into his arms.

“There you go,” he murmurs, stroking my hair. “Shhh. It’s okay now. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Strong forearms pin me to him, warm skin pressed against mine. And his voice is so damn gentle, sinking into my bones like a lullaby.

I can’t help it, I melt right into him.

It’s wrong. I know it is. But I lean in anyway, burying my forehead into his chest, breathing in clove and soap, letting it ground me.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” he says, brushing my hair from my face.

He leads me into the kitchen, lifts me onto the counter, then turns to grab the first-aid kit from the drawer. I sit in silence, hands bleeding quietly in my lap as my heart rate tries to return itself to something normal.

“You don’t need that phone,” he says as he takes one of my hands in his, dabbing at the cuts with a wet cloth. “You have everything you need right here. Me. Our family. You’re safe now, Levana.”

The word tastes like ash and smoke in the back of my throat.

Safe, safe, safe.

He presses a butterfly bandage to my knuckles, then moves to the next cut. He works slowly, delicately, like it’s penance, like he’s making up for everything he’s done with every careful press of gauze.

“I just get scared, you know?” he says softly. “If something ever happened, if you weren’t here—” He cuts himself off with a quiet breath. “If I lost you. If you left. I don’t think I’d know how to keep going… I think I’d just stop.”

The words wrap around my lungs, because he says it like a truth. Not a threat. Not a plea. Just… inevitability.

He finishes the last bandage and looks up at me with a soft, broken smile—one that says I saved him. That I have to keep saving him.

I should’ve run.

But now there’s a ring on my finger, and his name etched in my heart, and two babies pressing up into my ribs like they can feel it too.

I need out.

God, I need out.

But what if I leave and he actually breaks? What if he dies? What if he really does just stop?

I’m an idiot.

I ignored it. Over and over. Pushed it down, softened the edges, told myself it wasn’t what it looked like.

But now I’m scared.

Really scared.

I don’t think he’d ever hurt me. Or the babies. I don’t.

But what if he did?

What if something inside him snapped the wrong way one day?

What if I said the wrong thing, looked the wrong direction?

What if love isn’t enough to keep the darkness from spilling over?

But fuck, I love him so much. I wish that it could.

It’s in my bones now. In my blood.

It’s something rooted deep and sharp, impossible to pull free from without tearing myself apart.

So how the hell am I supposed to run?

I know he’s a good man. He is. He just wants what’s best for his family.

But he’s sick.

He’s so, so sick.

And he needs help.

Maybe I can be the one who gets him help.

It’s my responsibility now, right?

Mother of his child.

His fiancée.

The woman who’s desperately in love with him no matter what he’s done or what he’s making me do.

That’s who I am now.

Fat, heavy tears roll down my cheeks and my chest caves around heavy sobs.

Patrick pulls me in instantly, wrapping his arms around me. He strokes my back, shushes me, and kisses the top of my head.

“Shhh, baby,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

I cry harder.

“I love you so much,” he whispers into my hair. “You’re going to be my wife. Levana Marie Dalton. Can you believe that?”

His hand cups the back of my head, gently guiding my face against his chest.

“I’m going to be your husband. I’m going to take care of you and the babies, and I swear to god, I’ll do everything right. I’ll be perfect for you. You own me,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “You fucking own me, Levana. I’m yours. Completely.”

It’s meant to soothe me. But it only makes it worse.

I can’t stop crying. Can’t stop shaking. Can’t stop thinking ‘ I love you. I love you. I love you, but I’m so scared of you I can’t breathe.’

He keeps talking—about our future, about the house, about being a husband, a father to our babies, to Alexander and Mally and Dolly...

Salt soaks into the fabric of his shirt as I press myself deeper into his touch.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispers into my hair, voice wavering.

“It’s okay,” I manage, though I’m not sure if I mean it. “It’s okay.”

“Good.” He says.

Then, without warning, he bends and scoops me into his arms.

“Patrick?” I blink, startled. “What are you—?”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, over and over. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He carries me through the house, and I don’t register where we’re going at first until I spot the name painted across the door, and the small half-torn dinosaur sticker in the corner.

Alexander’s room.

Once we’re inside, he lowers me carefully onto the carpet, settling me beside the toy chest.

“Patrick?” I say, heart stuttering. “What are we doing in here?”

But he’s already standing.

Already moving.

Already backing into the hallway.

Already closing the door.

Already locking it—

My stomach plummets like I’ve been shoved off a cliff.

“What the fuck?” I whisper, scrambling to my feet so fast I almost trip over the rug. “No—Patrick, no, don’t—“

“I’m sorry,” he says through the wood, soft and muffled. “I just… I can’t let anything happen to you. Or the babies. I need to keep you safe.”

“Patrick, no. No. This isn’t okay. You can’t do this. You can’t fucking lock me in here!” My voice is rising, cracking around the edges, and I pound on the door. “Open the door! Patrick, please!”

“There are snacks in the corner. Your notebook, pens… Oh, and water. I brought your prenatal vitamins too. There’s a stack of blankets, you can use those, or… you can sleep with Alex in his bed if that makes you feel better.”

“Please, listen to me—”

“I’ll let you out to use the bathroom when you need to,” he cuts in gently. “I promise. But this is the only way I can really know you’re safe. That no one’s going to get you. That you’re not going to leave.”

My throat clamps shut.

He sounds so calm. Too calm.

“I love you, Levana,” he whispers, and this time it’s his voice that cracks. “I’m doing this because I love you.”

I can’t speak. I can’t scream.

I don’t even know how to stand right now.

So I sit. Right there on the floor, legs folding beneath me, palms pressing into the soft carpet as I try to hold myself onto something real.

I can hear him mumbling on the other side of the door.

“Patrick… Levana… Hattie, Milo, Alexander, Mally, Dolly…”