8: Quiet Before The Truth

  I wake slowly, the way you do after a fever breaks or a long night of bad dreams. There’s no sudden jolt, no sharp gasp for air. Just a dull awareness that my body feels… wrong.

   

  Heavy.

  Sore.

   

  When I try to move, a quiet hiss slips from my lips before I can stop it. Pain blooms along my ribs, deep and aching, like a bruise pressed too hard. My ankle throbs in protest, and my arm feels stiff, wrapped too tightly.

   

  I open my eyes.

   

  The ceiling above me is wooden, beams dark with age but clean and solid. Warm light spills softly from a lamp nearby, not bright enough to sting. The air smells faintly of herbs and clean linen, oddly comforting.

   

  For a moment, I just lie there, disoriented.

   

  Then I notice the bandages.

   

  White cloth wraps my forearm. My ribs. My ankle. Neatly done. Carefully done. Someone took their time.

   

  My heart stutters.

   

  The memory returns in pieces. The forest. Running until my lungs burned. The way my legs finally gave out beneath me. The ground rushing up. Darkness swallowing everything.

   

  “I passed out,” I whisper.

   

  Panic still rises anyway, sharp and immediate. I push myself upright, ignoring the way my muscles scream in protest.

   

  Mom.

   

  The thought hits me like a blow to the chest. Christmas dinner. Her startled laugh last night when I ran out of my room, breathless with excitement. Aurora’s message— I’ll be home Christmas morning.

   

  They’re waiting.

   

  They’re going to be worried.

   

  My chest tightens painfully. I fumble at the blanket, my hands shaking as I search the room for my phone. My bag. Anything familiar.

   

  Nothing.

   

  “No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “No, no…”

   

  I swing my legs off the bed, moving more on instinct than logic. The moment my foot touches the floor, pain shoots through my ankle, sharp enough to make me gasp. The room tilts violently, black spots dancing across my vision.

   

  I grab the edge of the bed to steady myself.

   

  I have to go home. I have to tell them I’m okay. I promised—

   

  The door opens quietly.

   

  I freeze.

   

  A man steps inside, closing the door behind him without a sound. He looks… normal. That’s the strangest part. Dark hair. Calm eyes. Dressed neatly in dark clothes that look practical rather than intimidating. When he sees me standing, concern flickers across his face immediately.

   

  “Hey,” he says gently. “You shouldn’t be up yet.”

   

  The softness in his voice catches me off guard. “Where am I?” I demand, though my voice wavers.

   

  “Somewhere safe,” he replies, not rushing closer, not looming. “Can you sit back down for me?”

   

  “I need to leave,” I say quickly. “My mom—my best friend—they’re expecting me. It’s Christmas.”

   

  “I know,” he says, and there’s no dismissal in it. Only certainty.

   

  My knees threaten to buckle. Before I can fall, he steps forward and steadies me with one hand on my arm. His grip is light, careful. The moment I’m balanced, he lets go.

   

  “Easy,” he says. “You pushed yourself too fast.”

   

  Reluctantly, I sit back down on the bed, breathing hard. My eyes burn, and I hate how fragile I feel in front of a stranger.

   

  “I didn’t mean to pass out,” I say, the words tumbling out. “I was running and then everything just… went dark.”

   

  “I know,” he says. “You were exhausted. Dehydrated. Hurt.”

   

  I look up sharply. “You didn’t knock me out?”

   

  “No,” he answers immediately. “You collapsed. We caught you before you could injure yourself worse.”

   

  That doesn’t make me feel better. But it doesn’t make things worse either.

   

  “Who are you?” I ask.

   

  “My name’s Lucien,” he says. “I’m in charge here.”

   

  Here.

   

  The word settles uneasily in my chest. “So you’re the one keeping me here.”

   

  Lucien considers that, then nods once. “For now, yes.”

   

  I wrap my arms around myself. “They’re going to think something terrible happened to me,” I whisper. “My mom worries about everything. And Aurora—she just got back. I promised them.”

   

  Lucien’s expression softens. “You care about them a lot.”

   

  “Yes,” I snap, then immediately regret it. “I mean—yes. I do.”

   

  “I can tell,” he says.

   

  I hesitate, then the fear spills out. “She’s going to be suspicious. My mom. If I don’t show up, if I don’t answer—she’ll know something’s wrong.”

   

  Lucien meets my gaze steadily. “She won’t.”

   

  I let out a shaky laugh. “You don’t know her.”

   

  “You’re right,” he says easily. “But I know how worry works. And I know how to prevent it.”

   

  My stomach tightens. “How?”

   

  “We’ll handle it,” Lucien says. “Quietly. In a way that won’t raise suspicion.”

   

  I stiffen. “What does that mean?”

   

  “It means she’ll believe you’re safe,” he explains gently. “Busy. Delayed. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

   

  “You’re going to lie to her?”

   

  “We’re going to protect her from fear,” he corrects. “Just as we’re protecting you.”

   

  I look down at my hands, fingers twisting together.

  “She’s already done so much for me. I don’t want her worrying. I don’t want her thinking I disappeared because of her.”

   

  Lucien’s voice softens. “She won’t.”

   

  I glance up. “You promise?”

   

  He doesn’t hesitate. “I promise.”

   

  Something inside me finally loosens. My shoulders sag as a breath I didn’t realize I was holding slips free.

   

  “And Aurora?” I ask quietly.

   

  “She’ll believe the same thing,” Lucien says. “They’ll both be taken care of.”

   

  I close my eyes for a moment, letting the reassurance sink in. It doesn’t erase the fear, but it dulls its sharpest edges.

   

  I hesitate, then ask the question I’ve been circling around since I woke up.

   

  “Kade?”

   

  Lucien stills for just a fraction of a second. If I weren’t watching him so closely, I might’ve missed it.

   

  “My boyfriend,” I clarify.

   

  “He’s… he was with me before everything happened.”

   

  Lucien exhales slowly, like he’s choosing his words with care. “You don’t need to worry about him right now.”

   

  “That’s not an answer,” I snap.

   

  “No,” he admits, voice calm. “It isn’t.”

   

  “Does he know where I am?”

   

  Lucien doesn’t meet my eyes fully.

   

  “Right now, your focus should be on recovering. Everything else will be explained when you’re ready.”

   

  I bite my lip. “So you know him?”

   

  “We know enough,” he says softly.

   

  I nod, frustrated but too tired to press further.

   

   

  Lucien reaches for the small table beside the bed and lifts a glass of water. “Drink. Please.”

   

  I take it, my fingers brushing his briefly. The water is cool, soothing my dry throat.

   

  “Thank you,” I murmur.

   

  “You’re welcome.”

   

  Only then do I notice my necklace resting against my collarbone, right where it should be. “You didn’t take this.”

   

  “No,” Lucien says. “It’s yours.”

   

  “What happens now?” I ask.

   

  “For now?” he replies. “You rest. You heal. You let your body recover.”

   

  “And later?”

   

  “When you’re in a sound state of mind,” Lucien says carefully, “we’ll explain everything we know about what happened to you. Why you were in danger. Why we intervened.”

   

  “No half-truths?”

   

  “No half-truths.”

   

  “And if I try to leave?”

   

  He doesn’t threaten me. He doesn’t raise his voice. “Then we’ll stop you,” he says calmly.

  “Not to hurt you. To protect you.”

   

  Lucien steps back toward the door. “You’re not alone here, Selene,” he says quietly. “And you’re not in trouble.”

   

  The door closes behind him with a soft click.

   

  I lie back slowly, exhaustion settling into my bones. My body aches, my heart aches, and my thoughts drift to my mom’s kitchen, to Aurora’s excited grin, to promises waiting for me outside these walls.

   

  I don’t understand this place.

  I don’t understand these people.

  I don’t even know if I should really trust this Lucien guy. It’s all messed up.

   

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

   

  But for now, at least—

  the people I love won’t be afraid. I hope.

   

  And that has to be enough.