Zayne’s POV
I watched Isla.
She sat there, quiet in a way that felt heavier than screaming. Her fingers were laced together in her lap, knuckles pale, gaze unfocused as if she was somewhere far from this sterile room, far from the humming machines and the faint antiseptic sting in the air.
She wasn’t talking.
And for once, I didn’t have the strength to push.
My body felt like it had been split open and stitched back together by someone who hated me. Every breath pulled at the wound in my side, a dull ache that sharpened if I moved too much. Even turning my head took effort. I was used to pain—but this was different. This was weakness layered on top of it, stripping me of control.
“Hey,” I said quietly, my voice rough. “You don’t have to say anything.”
Isla didn’t look up.
“I’m not
