Whitney’s nightmare didn’t surprise .
I could almost see it through her eyes the basent lights, the sharp slls, the cold hands, the way people in the Blackwell circle treated bodies like tools. I didn’t die instantly when Silas stabbed . I bled out slowly, trapped in that thin space between waking and darkness.
And while I was still there... they took downstairs.
Whitney was the reason.
They needed a heart. They needed mine.
Even if my eyes were closed, I believe Whitney knew. I believe sothing in her recognized , the sa way you recognize family by scent in a crowded room. She must have fought. She must have scread. She must have refused.
But refusal doesn’t matter when monsters decide your body belongs to them.
After that night, she lived with my heart beating inside her ribs. Not just a transplant. A reminder. A chain. A punishnt she never asked for.
And that was why she didn’t end her life, no matter how badly she wanted to.
If she died, my heart stopped too.
If my heart stopped, then the last living part of "Elena" would be gone for real.
So she stayed alive for .
That thought cracked sothing open inside my chest.
I held her tighter as she shook in her sleep. She clutched my clothes like she was drowning, her tears hot against my neck.
"Elena... I’m sorry," she sobbed.
My throat burned with words I couldn’t say.
Silly Whitney.
Back then, I used to get angry. I used to wonder why my sister could look at like I was nothing. But now all I felt was pity... and a strange kind of gratitude.
If my heart had to keep beating sowhere, I was glad it was with her.
If my death could give her even one more day of breathing, then it wasn’t completely useless.
I couldn’t speak, so I just rubbed her back slowly, steady and calm, like I was smoothing down a panicked animal until it rembered it was safe. Inside my head, I kept repeating the sa thing, over and over.
Don’t be afraid. I’m here. I’m here.
Her sobs finally softened. She pulled back a little, embarrassed.
"Sorry," she whispered. "I lost control."
I didn’t answer.
I reached for her hand instead and linked my pinky with hers.
Whitney froze.
I wasn’t sure she rembered, but when we were little, that was our secret. Any ti I wanted to sneak her out to play, I’d hook her pinky under the table, shake it three tis, then write one word on her palm.
Go.
I shook her pinky three tis.
Her brows pinched, confused, like she thought it was coincidence.
Then I leaned down and carefully wrote on her palm.
Go.
Whitney went stiff, like her whole body had turned to stone. Her lips parted, and her voice ca out small and shaky.
"Elena?"
My heart slamd against my ribs.
Caras.
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t do anything that would draw attention.
So I wrote again, slow and clear, right on her palm.
I am Elena.
For one second, she just stared at my hand like it wasn’t real.
Then the door flew open.
Vito stepped in and snapped on the light, flooding the room in harsh brightness. His voice ca out like he was pretending to care.
"Another nightmare?"
Whitney was still in my arms. Tears ran down her face, but her eyes stayed locked on mine, like she was trying to hold onto the truth before it vanished.
I gently pushed her away and took two steps back, forcing my face into blank calm.
Vito didn’t suspect anything. He barely looked at .
"Get out," he ordered.
I swallowed my anger and bowed my head like a good servant.
Vito gathered Whitney into his arms, holding her like she belonged to him, like he was comfort and not the reason she broke. But even as he held her, Whitney kept staring at .
I shaped the words silently with my lips.
Wait for .
Because she had given up on life a long ti ago. The only reason she was still here was the heartbeat inside her that wasn’t originally hers.
Now she knew.
Now she had to live.
I stepped outside and the night heat hit in the face. Jaford was the kind of place where the air clung to your skin. The yard buzzed with mosquitoes, and my knees still ached like soone had poured fire into the joints.
No phone. No tablet. No bed.
Just on the steps, staring up at the moon like it could send ssages.
I wondered if Lewis was looking at the sa moon.
If he was sleeping at all.
If the bond between us sharp and hungry and alive was tugging at him the way it tugged at . Like a thread tied around my ribs, pulling tighter every hour I stayed away.
I was back in Jaford, but the White Residence felt like a wall made of stone and eyes. Surveillance everywhere. That was why Yael didn’t chain up.
He didn’t need chains.
This place was a cage that watched you breathe.
So I stayed still. I curled up on the steps and rested my forehead on my knees, trying to steal a few minutes of sleep.
A shadow fell over .
"Elena," Yael said.
I looked up. His hair was ssy, like he’d just rolled out of bed. His face was calm, but his scent carried that strange edge control wrapped around sothing wild.
"Co sleep in my room."
My eyes flicked toward Whitney’s window.
Yael followed my glance and shrugged like it was nothing. "Vito cares about her too much to harm her."
He was right. In the sick way n like Vito cared, they didn’t destroy what they considered theirs. They broke it, kept it, displayed it... but they didn’t let it go.
So I followed Yael.
As long as he didn’t look at with hunger the way Vito looked at Whitney, I could survive this. Yael’s obsession was different. It was tangled in the past, in mory, in sothing that felt like a child gripping warmth so hard it bruised.
I slept on the couch in his room and dropped into darkness the second my head touched the cushion.
The next morning at breakfast, Whitney looked drained. Like she hadn’t rested at all, but she kept stealing glances at , eyes sharp with questions she couldn’t ask in front of everyone.
Yael, casually kind, invited to sit close.
Vito’s gaze narrowed. "Why are you so kind to Mute Girl?"
Whitney snapped before Yael could answer. "Do you think everyone is as cold as you?" Her voice was sharp, shaking. "Do you not even see other people as people?"
Vito went quiet.
He looked at her for a long mont and said nothing, but the air around him tightened. Possessive. Warning.
After breakfast, Whitney led back to her room.
She asked for a back rub, but her hands were restless, her eyes too focused. The mont we got inside, she grabbed my wrist and pulled close.
"Who are you actually?" she demanded, suspicion and hope fighting in her face.
I hesitated and glanced around automatically.
Whitney lowered her voice. "There are no caras in here," she said softly. "Relax."
My breath caught.
My hands shook as I stepped toward the bathroom mirror. The glass was fogged from earlier steam, cloudy and wet.
I lifted my finger and wrote three words, slow and clear, like a vow.
I am Elena.
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