Page 27 of The Shape of my Scar (The Unbroken #1)

T hane

When he entered, the room seemed smaller than it had before.

It was filled with the beep of machines and the unbearable fragility of the woman lying in the bed.

He had taken his contacts off for the first time in public since he was seventeen. The difference in his eyes—one bright blue, the other hazel—was stark. It was like he was painfully peeling off a layer in his carefully constructed fortress. Vulnerable, but only for her. There was no mask now.

Faolan lay in the bed, pale and bruised, swaddled in wires and gauze and hospital linen. But the numbers of wires and monitors were slowly decreasing.

She turned her head toward the sound of the door and saw him.

The man standing there wasn’t the Thane she remembered.

The one with cocky confidence, sharp charm, and an aura that pulled people in.

The one who could slay you with his indifference.

She had it directed to her many times over the last month.

She had his hands on her as he took pleasure in his body.

This man was hollowed out. His shoulders slumped like guilt had dug its claws into his bones.

Their eyes met.

A tear broke free from his hazel eye, streaking down his cheek. He didn’t brush it away.

Someone quietly pulled a chair up beside her bed. Thane sat, slowly, like his knees might not hold.

His hand hovered over hers, trembling. She tried to pull hers under the blanket, away from him, but he reached out first—gently, like touching fine glass. His large, rough fingers closed over her smaller, fine-boned ones.

He seemed to take a moment just looking at their hands—his darker, callused, and trembling; hers bandaged, pale, and limp.

“I know I have no right,” he whispered. “No right at all.” His voice cracked. “I’m so sorry, Faolan. So…so very sorry.”

She heard the words and felt the sincerity behind them.

And though she knew she should not blame him, something inside her recoiled.

An unreasoning fear, cold and sharp, slid down her spine like a knife.

She remembered the dream. The gun. His smile.

Her fingers twitched. She tried to pull her hand free.

The machines beeped louder as her heart rate spiked.

A moment later, the nurse stepped in, kind but firm. “That’s enough for now. She needs rest. It’s been a lot.”

Thane let go and slowly nodded, silent as a ghost.

Then he left without looking back.

***

She woke the next morning to a dull ache in her throat and pressure in her chest.

The room was bright with morning light. The ventilator was gone.

“You ready?” the nurse asked.

She nodded, just barely.

The next few minutes were awful.

The tube scraped its way out of her throat, leaving a trail of fire behind. She gagged and coughed, chest heaving, bringing up thick, stringy phlegm that tasted like metal and rot.

“Good,” the doctor said, gently patting her shoulder. “You’re breathing well. We’ll aim to remove the chest tube in the next day or two.”

She nodded weakly.

Everything hurt, but she was alive.

The nurses began to blur into familiar faces—Mary with the singing voice and Sam, who told awful jokes; young, rebellious Imogen with the silver nail polish, which she was not supposed to have on. The matron made her take it off. She memorised their voices, their kindness.

A few days later, they moved her down to HDU. The room was quieter, the light more natural. There were windows here, and she could see clouds.

That afternoon, Arthur came to see her.

He hadn’t said much at first, just stood by her bed with a soft, crumpled expression. His grizzled face had never looked so tender.

“You scared the shit out of us, little one,” he murmured, his voice catching. “You’re getting a desk job. You hear me? No more fieldwork. That’s the end of it.”

She smiled, faint and tired. Her throat rasped as she whispered, “Yes, Dad.”

His eyes filled. He squeezed her shoulder, and for the first time since waking, she let herself relax. She was safe now.

***

Cormac and Callum visited every day. Sometimes together, sometimes separately.

Cormac always brought something—flavoured water, clean socks, even a packet of Faolan’s favourite crisps. He still didn’t say much, but his presence made her feel safe.

Callum was chattier.

He told her what she missed—small stories, gossip. He told her about the Horsemen. About Maro getting banned from the vending machine for shaking it too hard.

But it was always there between the lines.

The person they didn’t talk about.

Finally, one afternoon, Faolan said it herself. “Thane?”

Callum nodded, hesitant. “He comes every day.”

She looked out the window. “I’m not ready,” she whispered,” I just…can’t face him yet.”

“I know,” he said. “But he waits, anyway.”