Page 81 of Silence and Surrender

Trust. Such a fragile thing after what she’d endured. What they’d done to her.

“She’s different at night,” I said quietly. “When the nightmares come. More vulnerable. More...”

“Real?”

“Honest.” I remembered how she’d clung to me after the last bad dream, letting me hold her while she shook. “Like she doesn’t have to be perfect then.”

“Because darkness hides everything.” Stryker’s voice carried old knowledge. “Even strength.”

On the training mats, Isabella stumbled slightly. I started forward automatically, but Stryker’s hand on my arm stopped me.

“Let her recover on her own,” he said. “She needs to know she can.”

I forced myself to stay still, watching as she regained her balance. Her face was too pale, but her eyes held fierce determination.

“That’s enough for today,” Stryker called, ignoring her protest. “Cool down exercises only.”

She started to argue, then swayed again. This time I moved before Stryker could stop me.

“I can handle this,” she said as I reached her. But she let me steady her, one hand gripping my arm. “Just tired.”

“Of course you are.” I kept my voice neutral. “You’ve been training for hours.”

But this was more than training fatigue. I could feel fine tremors running through her body, see how she fought to control her breathing.

“Let me help?” I kept it a question, always a question now. Never assuming, never demanding.

She hesitated, that familiar war between pride and need playing across her features. Then, slowly, she nodded.

“Just...to my room.” Her voice was smaller than usual. “I need to shower.”

I supported her carefully as we walked, letting her set the pace. Letting her maintain the illusion of control even as she leaned more heavily on me with each step.

Allegra appeared as we reached Isabella’s door, medical kit in hand. Something passed between the women, a silent understanding I couldn’t quite read.

“I’ve got this,” Allegra said. “Girl things.”

Isabella’s grip on my arm tightened fractionally before she let go. “I’m fine,” she said again. “Really.”

But she wouldn’t meet my eyes.

I watched them disappear into her room, and heard the shower start. I wanted to follow, to help, to fix whatever was wrong.

Instead, I went to find Cooper.

My brother was in his study, surrounded by surveillance photos and shipping manifests. Still hunting the bank’s network, still planning our revenge. Picking up the slack for me while I focused on Isabella.

The study itself seemed to mirror Cooper’s transformation—everything in this room spoke of permanence, of history. The leather-bound books lining walnut shelves, the Italian marble paperweights, the perfect organization of a man who’d found his peace.

“Something’s wrong with Isabella,” I said without preamble.

He looked up, unsurprised. “You noticed.”

“Of course I noticed.” I dropped into a chair, suddenly exhausted. “She’s sick. Or hurt. Or...”

“Or?”

“I don’t know.” I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated. “She won’t tell me. Won’t let me help.”

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