I did not go to the ICU that night.
Not because I was cruel.
Not because I did not understand what Damian had done.
I stayed away because too much blood was still warm on my hands, and I had spent too many years being dragged toward his suffering as if it were my duty to witness it.
For once, I chose not to run toward a wound just because it had his name on it.
Julian took me home after the police had finished with me.
Home was still a strange word in my mouth. It no longer meant the Voss estate, with its polished cruelty and locked medical corridors. It meant the townhouse Julian had insisted be renovated for touch and sound rather than spectacle. Smooth railings. Open paths. Labels in raised brass. The kitchen always smelling faintly of bergamot tea and cedar shelves. Safety, arran
