Page 70 of Hunted to the Altar
"Don’t."
"I did. I stressed you. I caged you. I?—"
"Don’t do this. Don’t make it about you."
That lands.
He flinches, then nods, slowly, like it hurts. Like every part of him is breaking and he doesn’t know how to bleed right.
He sinks onto the couch across from me. His elbows on his knees. Head in his hands.
"I didn’t know how to protect you," he mutters. "All I ever do is hurt what I try to keep."
I should comfort him. Should say something to ease the guilt splitting his chest.
But I can’t.
Because there is a pit where my center used to be.
And right now, I don’t want to be held. I don’t want to be fixed.
I want to sit in this pain until I understand what it means.
I stare out the window at the city lights, blurry through the thick pane of glass. I wonder how many other women are out there tonight, feeling the same hollow ache. Wonder how many of them were told "it’s common" or "you can try again" as if a replacement could be made from blood and bone.
We sit in the silence. Him with his guilt. Me with my loss.
I still don’t cry.
I won't—not in front of him.
Because if I do, I’ll break.
And I need him to see that I survived this.
Even if it kills me.
Even if every part of me wants to fall apart.
I close my eyes. I count to ten. I count the things I still have. My breath. My hands. My name.
I open them again and stare down Samuel Caputo—the man who swore to protect me and ended up being the sharpest blade pressed against my heart.
I survived you, too.
And you will never know how much it cost me.
Later, in the quiet of the penthouse bedroom, I sit alone with the weight of it. The grief comes in waves—sharp, stabbing ones that knock the air from my lungs. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep the sobs back. I rock myself.
Anger creeps in. Not at Samuel. Not at the doctor. Not even at myself. But at the world. At the irony. At the cruelness of being given something just to lose it before I ever had a chance to protect it.
But then comes... acceptance. Or maybe something close to it. Something shaped like surrender.
Maybe—just maybe—this was mercy.
Not for me.
For them.
