Page 56 of Fire and Silk

“You didn’t kill him, Mico,” I say.

His eyes snap to mine—red, shining, wrecked.

“I did,” he says, voice hoarse. “I did, Lira.”

“No,” I say again, and my voice firm, even through the hitch in my chest. “You didn’t. You suggested what any good friend would. You tried to help him. You told him what made sense. And then things went bad. That’s not the same as murder.”

He stares at me like he doesn’t know how to hold the words. Like they don’t fit in the world he’s built around himself.

“He would hate this,” I whisper. “Marco would hate that you’ve carried this alone. He would yell at you. You know that, right?”

A few more tears spill down Mico’s face, and he presses his lips together like he’s trying to keep himself from breaking apart again. His voice comes low and choked.

“I am so sorry.”

I wrap my arms around him before he can say anything else.

I pull him into me, and his arms come around my waist so tightly it almost hurts.

****

Silk Root, Dantès Estate

The lights in the ceiling have dimmed to a soft glow. They mimic the way dusk settles outside, even though I haven’t seen the sky since the night I was taken. I don’t know what time it is. The room has no clocks, just a soft rhythm of light and silence that moves like tides in a place without sun.

I’ve spent most of the day in bed. Mico hasn’t left my side. A maid came in hours ago—quiet, unsmiling—and wheeled in a tray of food. Soup. Fruit. Flatbread. Water. Mico made me eat even when I didn’t want to. He held the spoon to my mouth, coaxing me with gentle words and long looks until the pressure in my chest gave way to hunger. He poured me water, then wiped my chin when I was weak to stop it from spilling.

At some point, I must have fallen asleep. The memory of it is scattered, warm around the edges. But when I open my eyes again, the lights are lower and Mico is still sitting at the side of the bed, arms folded across his chest.

He’s watching me.

His expression is unreadable—worried, yes, but something else . Something that makes the air feel thicker.

I blink slowly and whisper, “This isn’t a dream, is it.”

His shoulders drop as he exhales. He leans forward and brushes a knuckle down the side of my cheek.

“No,” he says. “I’m sorry. It’s real.”

I shift upward and he helps me, slipping an arm behind my back as I push myself into a sitting position. His touch is careful, like I might break again at any moment.

“I’ll get you out of here,” he says softly, adjusting the pillow behind me. “I promise. Whatever it takes.”

I rest my head against the wall and glance at him. “How?”

He hesitates for half a second, then shakes his head. “Don’t worry about that. Just focus on getting your strength back. I’ll handle the rest.”

His voice is calm. I know that tone. It’s the one he uses when he’s already decided to keep something from me.

My brow furrows. “How did you even know where I was?”

That does something to his face. His gaze flickers, then sharpens.

I straighten slightly, though the effort costs me. “Do you know him?” I ask. “The man who brought me here?”

His jaw works before he answers.

“I don’t know him personally. But I know who he is.”