Her heels clicked softly against the floor, unhurried, deliberate. She paused just inside the doorway, eyes sweeping over the room with cool curiosity. Her gaze moved from the healer, to Dorian, and finally to the bed. To Rowen. Her lips parted slowly. “Oh my God,” she said, her voice coated in false shock. “What is wrong with Rowen?” The words were light. Careless. Mocking. Something inside me screamed. I turned toward her so fast the room tilted. “Get out,” I said. Marisol blinked, feigning confusion. “I just heard there was a situation. I came to check.” Her eyes lingered on Rowen’s still body. Dorian frowned. “Marisol, this is not—” “He looks asleep,” she continued, cutting him off. “Did he finally stop struggling?” The healer gasped. I felt my knees weaken, then lock. “You do not get to speak about him,” I said. My voice shook, but it did not break. “You do not get to stand here.” Marisol tilted her head, studying me like a puzzle she had already solved. “I am his
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