Page 87 of Vampire Soldier

I move to where Wren and the doctor stand a short distance away, giving Charlie space. Dr. Shayla turns to me with a calm, steady expression, her voice low enough not to carry. “She’s doing well, all things considered,” she says. “Physically, she’s fine—some bruising, a bit dehydrated, but nothing lasting. Emotionally… well, that might come later. You should expect nightmares. Fatigue. Possible mood swings. It won’t always make sense, but it will be part of how she processes.”

I nod slowly, absorbing each word like I’m bracing for a storm I can’t see yet.

Dr. Shayla adds, “The Nightshade network has access to excellent trauma therapists. Even just a couple sessions can help ground things before they spiral. It’s not a weakness—it’s just… recovery with help.”

My throat tightens. I nod. “Thank you,” I say quietly, then add, “Also—Malachi needs to be looked at. When he’s out of the shower.”

Wren steps in smoothly. “I’ll make sure he gets checked out. You don’t need to hang back for that.” Her voice is quiet but firm, a subtle offer of protection I hadn’t realized I needed.

I nod, grateful.

Wren turns to Charlie, offering a quiet smile. “Try to get some sleep. Maybe in a couple days we’ll have a girls’ day and go get brunch together and get our nails done.”

Charlie looks at her, then at me. “I want to sleep in my room,” she says. There’s a firmness in her voice, small but solid.

I reach out and brush a curl from her cheek. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s get you settled.”

I take her hand and guide her upstairs myself, step by slow step, her body leaning just slightly into mine. In her room, I help her out of her clothes, find her favorite pajamas she owns, and get her tucked in beneath the duvet she’s had since she was eight with her stuffed narwhal. She doesn’t say much, but her blue eyes track me the entire time.

When I sit down on the edge of the bed, she reaches for my hand again.

“Can you stay until I fall asleep?” she asks.

My heart aches. I reach out and run a hand over her hair. “Of course.”

She hesitates. “And Malachi?”

“Yeah,” I say, breath hitching. “Yeah, I’m sure he will once Dr. Shayla is done with him.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Then: “Good.”

She says it softly, but there’s weight in it. Trust. Even after all of it. Maybe especially after all of it.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” I wait until she meets my eyes again. “I’m just going to get ready for bed and then I’ll be right back.”

I slip down the hall to my bedroom, careful not to let the floorboards creak too loudly. The bathroom door is open, light off—Malachi must already be finished and back downstairs. That small detail brings a sense of relief I can’t explain.

I pull on an old cotton tee and pajama pants, then quickly return to Charlie’s room.

She’s already pulled the comforter up to her chin by the time I enter. I slide in beside her and settle in as she props herself in the middle of the bed.

Twenty minutes later, Malachi is back. Wearing soft black sweatpants and a fitted obsidian shirt, his damp hair curling around his jaw. I’ve been lying beside Charlie, talking softly with her about the art museum we saw on a postcard last week—the one in Vienna she couldn’t stop staring at. We branched from there into our wish list: Paris, Rome, Florence, London. A casual, dreamy thread of conversation to keep the weight of the night at bay.

When Malachi enters, I glance up at him and smile softly. “We’re talking about our future European art tour,” I tell him. “All the museums we’re going to see one day.”

Something flickers in his expression—understanding, maybe, or gratitude. He knows exactly what I’m doing.

Without hesitation, he crosses to the opposite side of the bed and eases onto the comforter with careful, steady grace. “I could share some stories,” he offers gently. “From the times I’ve been. Or... from when I knew some of the artists.”

Charlie’s eyes widen, that spark of curiosity finally breaking through the haze.

Malachi looks at me. Then her. He nods again.

He starts with the Vatican. Moves into the Guggenheim. Then tells a story about the ancient underside of Prague—where the stone corridors were so narrow Lan once got wedged between two pillars, and Ashe laughed so hard he nearly dropped a priceless artifact they were smuggling back to the proper owners.

His voice is steady and warm, painting each place with the kind of detail that makes it easy to imagine. She hums once or twice, asking what the food was like, then what kinds of doors lined the floors. He answers each question without hesitation, like this moment is exactly where he wants to be.

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