Patient B-2

Chapter Forty-Seven: Avalyn

  I leave him on the ground, kneeling and bloodied. As I step out of my room, Cierien slips past me like a shadow, his gaze avoiding mine and his silence heavier than the air itself. His expression is inscrutable— is it shame, or does he expect me to feel it for what I've done?

 I don't feel bad— or at least, I don't think I do. There's a strange sensation churning in my gut, but I can't decipher what it is. Guilt? Satisfaction? Maybe both. Maybe neither.

 Sophie sinks onto the couch, her face etched with worry, though I can't tell for whom. Without a word, I join her, flipping on the TV. The familiar sounds spill into the room, offering a distraction. I nestle closer, craving the comfort of her presence. She tucks me into her side, her silent support speaking volumes. Together, we let the noise of the television fill the silence.

 Minutes tick by, and they don't leave my room. I tell myself they need time to gather their composure, to piece together the shattered fragments of their calm before facing us again. But as the silence stretches on, a knot of unease tightens in my stomach.

 What's taking them so long?

 Straining my ears, I pick up the faint sounds emanating from my room— the soft sweep of a broom gliding against the floor, the rhythmic clink of objects being carefully placed back in their rightful spots. They're cleaning my room— they're cleaning the mess I made.

 The strange sensation in my gut only worsens.

 They take their time, and part of me considers barging in, insisting I can handle the mess I created. But I refrain. Just as they near completion, Aren and Idalia burst in, instantly altering the atmosphere. The subtle rustle of bags in Idalia's grip replaces the quiet that prevailed moments before. "Tonight, the guys get your bed," she asserts the moment she steps over the threshold, her voice tinged with weariness. Her words hold an unmistakable authority, brooking no opposition. "Wrath deserves a decent rest, not on our lumpy couch."

 Her concern for Wrath's well-being perplexes me; she rarely shows such care for anything beyond Aren. But what truly confounds me is her insistence on him occupying my bed.

 At the mention of the bed, both Wrath and Cierien emerge from the shadows, each reaction a vivid display of their inner worlds. Wrath's countenance remains inscrutable, guarding his thoughts behind a stoic facade, while Cierien's unease practically crackles in the air around him. "I don't need it," Wrath murmurs softly, his voice barely audible above the hush.

 "You need to be at your best tomorrow," she scolds, her voice carrying a blend of sternness and unexpected warmth, though I suspect it's merely due to her desire for everything to run smoothly. "You've been the one griping about restless nights on that cramped couch, so do yourself a favor and claim her bed for tonight."

 "Why my bed?" I retort, frustration seeping into my words as I resist the notion of surrendering my space without prior discussion. "If Wrath's sleep is such a concern, he could have asked me himself. And if you're so adamant about it, why not offer up your own bed?"

 "As if," she tuts dismissively, unmoved by my objection.

 "I'll manage on the couch," Wrath reiterates, his voice gaining a sharper edge.

 "You look like shit, Wrath. Those dark circles under your eyes and that deathly pallor? Not a good look," she remarks bluntly, her assessment unsparing. "I'd say those sleepless nights are catching up to you."

 "I'm pretty sure it's the fact that Avalyn stabbed me that's taking a toll, not just lack of sleep," he grumbles, bitterness lacing his words as he strides toward the couch to retrieve his bag.