Darius didn't leave.
That was the worst part.
He sat at the edge of the bed, unmoving, breathing too quietly—like he was afraid even a shift of air would shatter me. I kept my face turned away, pretending to steady myself. Pretending to breathe normally. Pretending not to tremble.
But my fingers wouldn't leave my neck.
Because the flesh remembered the blade.
The nerves remembered the ripping.
My soul remembered dying.
Tears slid across my nose and fell onto the pillow. I tried to wipe them before he noticed, but my hand shook too hard.
"Aria," he said again, voice quiet. "I'm calling the physician."
"No." My response was immediate, panicked.
His brows tightened. "You were asleep for three days. You collapsed in my arms. You're crying without pause. Tell me why."
Because I watched you kill me.
