Page 8

8

Lena

T he first thing she noticed when she woke up was the silence.

No wind. No rain. No cold.

No Tristan’s heartbeat beneath her cheek. She missed his strong, steady heartbeat. Instead, there was the soft, steady beeping of machines and the muted hum of voices from somewhere far away. There was a scent in the air—of antiseptic and something else. Something faintly floral.

She felt warm, tucked under several layers of blankets. It was nice. Very nice. So why did she miss the bone-deep, desperate heat Tristan had pressed into her as he’d held onto her in the cave?

The cave.

Everything came back to her now, like a movie from long ago.

She stretched out her hands, feeling the sides of a narrow bed.

A hospital bed.

Lena blinked against the brightness pressing behind her eyelids, shifting her legs slightly, expecting pain—which never came. The pain was gone. Her ankle felt huge, though. Like it was swaddled in something, under the sheet.

There was movement nearby. A chair scraping against tile. Footsteps.

“Madeleine.”

Her chest tightened. “ Papa .”

Her father, who prided himself on always looking put-together and kept not one but two spare uniforms in his office, looked rumpled … in a way she’d never seen before. Rumpled and exhausted, his jaw shadowed with a graying stubble, his eyes red-rimmed. For the first time, he looked his age. Or even older.

“How are you feeling, Madou?” It’d been years since he’d called her that. Many, many years. Tears filled her eyes, and she blinked them back, because tears were a sign of weakness, and her father didn’t appreciate those.

She wet her lips, trying to find her voice. “What time is it? How long have I been sleeping?”

Her father rubbed a hand over his jaw, exhaling. “It’s five a.m. Your ankle’s sprained, and you were mildly hypothermic, but your core temperature is back to normal now.”

She struggled to piece together the timeline. Five in the morning … It seemed like days had gone by, but it had only been a few hours.

“I’m really sorry.”

Her father frowned. “What?”

“I’m sorry for keeping your PGHM teams busy all night, and for embarrassing you,” she whispered. She knew how strongly her father felt about this topic.

“Embarrassing me …” He rolled the words around his mouth for a minute. “Madeleine … You could never embarrass me. If you know nothing else, you must know that .” He seemed about to say something else, but then he closed his mouth and patted her hand gently, as if surprised by his outburst. “I need to go make a few calls,” he said, after a short while. “Lieutenant Devallé has been waiting outside to see you. I can send him away.”

Her stomach flip-flopped at the sound of Tristan’s name.

“No. I want to see him. I’d like to say thank you.”

Her father nodded stiffly and made his way to the door. “I love you, Madou,” he said.

“I love you too, Papa .” She wasn’t going to hold it inside anymore.

The moment the door clicked shut, she exhaled shakily, pressing her head deeper into the pillow. It still didn’t feel real. None of this felt real.

The door creaked open again.

Tristan .

He stood in the doorway longer than necessary. He’d changed into a clean uniform, but he still looked wrecked—exhaustion etched into every line of his face. But his eyes—those stormy blue eyes—were locked on her. He stepped inside, slow and careful. “Hey.”

Lena’s throat tightened. The sound of his voice—low, familiar, grounding—unraveled something deep in her chest.

“Hey,” she whispered.

Tristan hesitated, as if he wasn’t sure what to do next. Then he exhaled, raking a hand through his hair before sinking into the chair her father had vacated moments before.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he finally admitted, voice rough.

A weak laugh bubbled from her throat. “I didn’t exactly plan it, you know. I’m still amazed you found me.”

His gaze softened, tracing over her, as if reassuring himself she was really okay. “How’s your ankle?”

“Sprained. And my core temperature is back to normal, my father tells me.”

“Good. That’s good.” He paused.

“I owe you my life,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

Tristan shook his head. “Don’t.”

“I mean it.” Her fingers tightened around his. “I don’t think I’d still be here if it weren’t for you.”

His throat bobbed, but he didn’t look away.

“Tristan…”

He squeezed her hand again. “Get some rest, Lena. I’ll be right here.”

Her lips parted, ready to argue that she wasn’t tired, that there was still so much to talk about, but the exhaustion was already creeping in. Whatever they’d given her to take away the pain was also making her drowsy.

She let her eyes drift shut, holding onto the last thing she felt before sleep claimed her—the warmth of his fingers laced through hers.