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CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

ELENA

Conor’s brothers wander in and out of the room as I sit by his bedside. My hand resting gently on his, I wait for any sign that he’s still with us. Still fighting. But there’s nothing—no response, no movement. His fingers are cold, and the pulse beneath my touch is so weak, I barely register it. I find myself constantly checking his chest, making sure it’s rising and falling—painfully reminding me of the countless hours I spent as a hospice aide, watching patients die, before I met Vic. The steady sound of the machine beside him is the only reminder that he’s still alive, and even it seems to grow quieter with each passing day.

I can’t stop staring at him, my mind replaying the events leading up to this over and over again. How we should have demanded that he come home with us. I want to shout at him—demand that he wake up. I want him to look at me the way he always does—with that cocky grin that says everything is going to be okay. But I can’t. All I can do is sit here—helpless—while I wait. Being strong for him and willing him back to us.

My poor Victoria. She seems to be losing herself more and more by the day. She’s barely left his side since we stepped into this room three nights ago. Her cheeks are hollow and her face is pale from lack of sleep. She’s barely eaten a thing. She is a sliver of the Madame I know and love. She’s sinking into a deep well of despair, and there’s nothing I can do. I’m as helpless to stop it as I am of saving Conor.

I’ve tried to pull her from this room, to convince her to eat, to take care of herself, but she’s pushed me away repeatedly. She’s been so quiet and distant. I’ve listened to her cry when she thinks I’m sleeping. Seeing her like this is breaking me, watching her fall apart when all I want to do is hold her. I don’t know how much more the thread she’s hanging by can take.

Shifting in my chair, I try to find a comfortable position. It’s futile after the hours I’ve spent sitting here. I glance at Victoria, who’s curled up in a chair on the other side of Conor’s bed, her arms wrapped around her fragile body. My eyes lock with her teary ones, and a pang of guilt tears at my heart—guilt that I’m not doing more to help her. But I don’t know how. I’m not the strong one.

A soft knock at the door startles me, and I glance up to see Tristan in the doorway. His eyes flick to Conor, then to Victoria, before meeting mine. “We all know he’s a stubborn arse . He will pull through this,” he insists, his voice steady but not quite convincing. He gestures for me to join him, and I take the opportunity to give myself a few minutes of reprieve from the seat.

Walking from the room, I pause in the doorway to look at Victoria, still silent, still crestfallen. She didn’t move when Tristan joined us; her gaze stayed fixed on Conor. She has her hands clenched into fists, her knuckles white from squeezing them as tightly as she has her arms wrapped around her body.

“Have you tried talking to her?” Tristan asks softly, looking through the window to Victoria.

I shake my head. “She won’t listen. She won’t even look at me. She’s so lost in herself that… I don’t know what to do. She leads me… I don’t lead her.”

“You do,” Tristan softly explains. He places a hand on my shoulder and gives me a reassuring squeeze. “She might lead you, but you, as her submissive, are the powerful one in your relationship. And right now, she needs you to take the lead. She needs you to be the strong one.”

“I don’t know how,” I murmur, swallowing hard, trying to hold back the tears threatening to rise again.

He squeezes my shoulder again, his blue eyes boring through me. “You do. You, better than all of us, know exactly what she needs.” I know he’s right. I know there’s nothing more I can do for Conor except wait for him to wake up. But Vic… I can help her. Tristan’s hand slides from my shoulder, down my arm, and to my hand. He holds it tenderly, his expression softening as he promises, “He’ll wake up. You know he will. He’s a stubborn fucking arse . You know he won’t go down without a fight, Elena.”

I nod, but his words feel as hollow as my chest. A glimmer of hope that I’m not sure I believe in anymore. I want to believe. God, I fucking want to believe . But it’s hard when every passing moment feels like it could be the last.

Tristan tightens his grip on my hand and glances at Vic and Conor. “Let me sit with him for a little while. I’ll keep an eye on him so you can take care of her.”

My legs are stiff from sitting for so long, and every step into the room toward them is painful. I walk to Victoria and kneel beside her. “Vic, baby… You need to take a break,” I gently insist, brushing her hair back from her face. Her eyes meet mine, but she isn’t looking at me. She’s barely there. “We need to take care of you. Tristan is here. He’s going to stay with Conor. Just for a little while, okay?”

Her throat bobs with her swallow, and I know she’s heard me. She’s just… lost. Standing, I press a kiss to her forehead, and my fingers gently encircle her wrists. “Please, Vic. You need to eat. You need to take care of yourself. For you. For me. For Conor .”

Her eyelids flutter, and finally, she looks up at me. Her eyes are dull—devoid of their usual sparkle—full of heartache. But the pain in her eyes is enough to let me know she’s still there. I haven’t completely lost her, too . Slowly, almost reluctantly, she lets me pull her to her feet. She’s so fragile that I practically carry her as we walk to the door.