When that fragile warmth finally settled between my arms, it felt as though I had been granted the right to breathe again.
Air rushed into my lungs in a sharp, desperate inhale, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I could hear the steady, thunderous rhythm of my own heartbeat.
As I carried Rosalia's unconscious body toward the car, I did not forget to issue my command. My voice came out low, cold, and absolute—like a verdict carved in stone.
"Henry… deal with all of them."
I didn't need a reply.
Henry never answered. His gaze was fixed—completely, obsessively—on Rosalia lying in my arms.
There was something unreadable in his eyes… disbelief, pity… and beneath it all, a flicker of self-reproach.
I knew that look far too well.
And precisely because I understood it, I chose to ignore it.
This time, I didn't care.
Of course, Henry wasn't the only one watching.
