Page 25 of Crushed Vow
“That doesn’t mean you’re weak,” Angelo said gently. “It means your nervous system is sounding alarms where it once wasn’t safe. This house carries history. So do the people in it. But that reaction is your body trying to protect you. We can work with that. The goal isn’t to forget—it’s to make remembering less painful.”
I swallowed. “So what? Do I need more drugs?”
He shook his head. “No. What you need now is the opposite of what they gave you. You need stability. Safety. Space where you’re not touched without consent. Where you’re not punished for emotion. You need to be seen as human again.”
My eyes blurred for a moment. I blinked hard.
“Whatever facility you were in,” he continued, “they likely used heavy sedatives. Antipsychotics. Possibly even medication designed to suppress memory. We need to run a blood panel to see what’s still in your system.”
“That’s why everything feels so... tangled,” I murmured. “Like I’m floating in someone else’s head.”
He nodded. “It’s not your fault. None of it is. And you’re not imagining the confusion. Flashbacks, numbness, hallucinations—those are all normal reactions to both trauma and withdrawal.”
I sat quietly for a moment, absorbing his words. Then: “What happens next?”
“If you’re comfortable,” he said, “I’ll take a small blood sample. It’ll go to a private lab. From there, we can make informed decisions—together. Nothing happens without your permission.”
I looked to Cassian. He gave the slightest nod, a silent promise not to interfere.
“Okay,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Do it.”
Angelo opened a slim medical kit and moved to my side. “I’m going to tie this around your arm. It’ll feel snug for a few seconds. You let me know if you want to stop.”
I nodded stiffly, heart racing.
He moved slowly, like he’d done this a thousand times but knew each time mattered. As the tourniquet tightened, my pulse surged. When he pulled out the needle, my body tensed.
Images from the ward flashed in my mind—cold metal beds, locked doors, the sting of sedation. I gripped the couch cushion beside me to stay grounded.
“Small pinch,” he warned, and then it was over. Quick. Clean. The vial began to fill.
He pressed cotton to the site, taped it gently, and packed everything back with quiet efficiency.
“All done,” he said with a reassuring nod. “You did well. I’ll be in touch soon with the results.”
He stood, pausing briefly as if to give me space to ask anything else. I just nodded again, too drained to speak. Cassian didn’t move or say a word.
Angelo gave me a final, kind look, then left the room, the door clicking softly behind him.
I glanced down at my lap, then at the soft cotton sleeve of the shirt I wore.
His shirt.
“I borrowed this,” I said, barely above a whisper.
Cassian turned his head, his gaze trailing over me with something unreadable. “It looks better on you.”
A flicker of heat rose to my cheeks, but I pushed it down. I shifted slightly on the couch, giving us both room to breathe.
“What did you make?” I asked, nodding toward the kitchen. My voice still felt too tight, like it hadn’t been used in years.
“Pasta,” he replied, his tone softer now. “Tomato basil. Light. I remember you liked it.”
My chest tightened—because I hadn’t told him that. Not recently. Maybe not ever, out loud.
I gave a small nod. “I did. I do.”
He leaned back, folding his hands loosely in his lap. For a while, we just sat like that—beside each other, not touching, not speaking. Just breathing the same air. Letting the silence do what our words couldn’t.
