Lahat ng Kabanata ng A Kiss For Every Bruise : Kabanata 51 - Kabanata 60

Adrian’s POVThe days after that morning did not soften. Instead, they deepened.Kayla did not test me with messes anymore. She had crossed that bridge and catalogued the result. Dropping things no longer gave her information. So she shifted tactics, the way traumatized children do when they realize the obvious traps don’t spring. She tested me with distance.It started subtly. She stopped running to me when she woke from naps. Stopped calling out when she couldn’t find a toy. If I entered a room, she didn’t look up right away. Not avoidance exactly, more like restraint. As if she were learning how much of herself she could safely withhold.Miguel noticed it before I did. “She’s checking whether you disappear when she doesn’t perform,” he said one evening, watching Kayla line up her stuffed animals with almost military precision. “Attention that has to be earned isn’t safety. She’s waiting to see if yours expires.” That sentence lodged itself in my chest and stayed there.I had built

Adrian’s POV That night, after Kayla finally fell asleep, I sat on the floor outside her room longer than necessary. Miguel had told me not to hover. Be present, not looming, he’d said. But old instincts died hard. I listened to the soft rhythm of her breathing through the cracked door, the occasional hitch that came before sleep deepened again. She clutched the corner of her blanket like it might disappear if she let go. I stayed anyway. Because the quiet after a breakthrough was when fear crept back in. Not hers. Mine. I kept replaying the morning in my head, the toast, the drop, the way her body had gone rigid as if bracing for impact. That kind of readiness didn’t come from one bad day. It came from repetition. From patterns carved deep enough to feel inevitable. And I hated Mason Burkeley with a cold, precise fury that scared me in its calm. Miguel joined me eventually, lowering himself onto the floor beside me without a word. We sat shoulder to shoulder, backs against the w

Adrian’s POVKayla fell asleep with her fist wrapped around my thumb. She had done that more often lately, reaching for me without looking, as if she trusted I would still be there when her eyes closed. Miguel called it object permanence rebuilding. I called it the most terrifying privilege of my life.I sat beside her bed long after her breathing evened out, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, the faint crease between her brows that only appeared when she dreamed. Some nights she still whimpered. Some nights she slept like nothing had ever touched her. Tonight, she slept deep.I eased my hand free carefully, like disarming a bomb, and stepped into the hallway. Miguel was waiting near the window, arms folded, gaze fixed on the dark stretch of ocean beyond the estate. He didn’t turn when I approached. “She held your hand,” he said. “Yeah.” I smiled. “That’s new.” “So is a lot of this.”He finally looked at me then. Really looked. Not the Salvador heir. Not the strategist. Ju

Adrian’s POV The house was quiet in a way that didn’t feel brittle anymore. Kayla had fallen asleep on the couch after coloring herself into exhaustion, her small body curled around a pillow like she expected it to disappear if she let go. I had carried her to bed myself, slow and careful, counting each breath the way Miguel had taught me. When I came back downstairs, the lights were dimmed, the world reduced to soft shadows and the muted city glow beyond the windows. Miguel was in the armchair opposite mine, legs crossed, a glass of water balanced precisely on the coaster. I still wore transparent gloves. I always did, even when indoors. Even with my family and close buddies. Those who did not know me thought it was eccentricity, but those close to me knew better. I have always struggled with a serious case of germaphobia. “She’s getting better,” I said quietly, staring at the darkened hallway that led to Kayla’s room. Miguel nodded. “She is. And so are you.” That should have

Gwen’s POV The west wing had mirrors everywhere. That was the first thing I noticed after a few days of confinement. They were the kind of mirrors meant to reassure, not reflect. Soft lighting. Warm frames. Nothing sharp. Nothing honest. They wanted me to recognize myself again. Or maybe they wanted me to doubt that I ever had. I stood before one of them one morning, brushing my hair slowly, watching my own eyes. The girl looking back at me was not broken. She was not hysterical. She was thinner. Quieter. Sharper around the edges. Trauma had not erased me, it had rearranged me. That mattered. Sebastian visited just after breakfast. He brought fruit I did not ask for and the concern he wore like armor. “You’re doing better,” he said, sitting across from me. Not a question. A conclusion. “I’m calmer,” I replied. “That’s not the same thing.” He smiled faintly. “Doctor Weston thinks calm is a good sign.” There it was again. Doctor Weston. Always cited. Always deferred to. As if her