Page 9 of Knot Shattered
He let the silence stretch for a few heartbeats, then stepped up beside me. I didn’t look at him, even as his hand reached for mine, just gently enough to take the chisel from my grip. My fingers resisted at first, curled so tight around the handle they ached. But Henry didn’t force it. He just waited, steady, patient, until I let go.
He set the chisel down on the worktable, and for a long moment, he didn’t say anything. His eyes found the sculpture again, his jaw tightening as he studied her.
“She’s angry,” he said softly, like he was afraid saying it too loud would set her off.
“She’s tired,” I murmured, voice hoarse. “She just wants to rest.”
I hadn’t planned to say that. It fell out of me, slipped through my lips, and spilled into the quiet like it had been waiting.
Henry turned toward me, expression unreadable. His brows were pulled together, not in judgment. Just in that way, he always looked when he didn’t have the right words but wanted to find them anyway. “You sleep at all last night?”
I huffed out a laugh, breath catching somewhere between humor and exhaustion. “A couple of hours. Nightmares don’t really care about REM cycles.”
He didn’t flinch. Just nodded, slowly, and stepped a little closer. One of his hands came up to the back of my neck, his thumb brushing over the nape. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t meant to be. It was grounding. Familiar. It was him.
“I can sit outside the room again,” he said. Not a question. Just an offering.
I swallowed hard, blinking fast. “You shouldn’t have to.”
He leaned in a little, his voice dipping lower. “It’s not about what I have to do, Odette. It’s about what I will do.” His words rumbled through me like distant thunder. “And I’ll sit outside that damn door every night until you sleep for more than two hours without crying, shaking, or screaming.”
That cracked something. Not fully. But enough to sting. Enough to make my eyes burn.
“I’m so fucking tired, Henry,” I whispered, voice small and sharp around the edges. “I don’t even feel like me anymore. I feel like I’m still there. Even when I’m here. Even when I’m carving, it’s like I never got out.”
He didn’t say anything at first. Just wrapped his arms around me and pulled me in tight. A silent, crushing bear hug that swallowed me whole. I buried my face in his chest and breathed in Henry's smell—leather, dust, coffee, and something warm I could never name but consistently recognized.
“You’re not in that basement anymore, baby girl,” he said into my hair. “You made it out. You fucking survived. And I swear—on every god and every ghost—I’ll make sure those bastards never touch you again.”
I didn’t sob. Though I wanted to. I stayed there, letting his arms hold me up while my body remembered how to breathe. Letting his chest rise and fall against mine until my own heartbeat stopped trying to outrun itself.
And when I finally pulled back, he let go like I was made of glass, slow and careful, like he didn’t want to send me splintering again. I didn’t feel fragile. I felt… hollow. Worn. But not broken. Not right now.
My hands fell to my sides, fingers tingling. Marble dust clung to the sweat on my arms, streaked across my shirt like some war paint. I looked like hell. But I looked real.
“I hate that I still feel like this,” I muttered, eyes locked on the stained concrete beneath my boots. “Like they still have pieces of me they never gave back.”
Henry didn’t rush to fix it. He never did.
“You lost a lot,” he said. “No one expects you to bounce back overnight.”
“I know,” I said, jaw tight. “But I didn’t think it would still feel this raw. Like I’m walking around with wounds no one can see but I feel every damn second.”
He stayed quiet for a moment, then gave a slight nod. “You’re healing. And healing’s ugly. It’s not a straight line. It doesn’t give a shit if you’re tired.”
I breathed out slowly, dragging my hand through my hair, then walked back toward the sculpture. She stood there, frozen mid-scream, hands still covering her face, chains pulling at her wrists. I reached out and brushed a line of dust off her jaw.
“She doesn’t feel finished,” I murmured.
Henry stepped beside me, his voice low but steady. “She’ll tell you when she is.”
I nodded slowly. Swallowed the thickness in my throat.
“She’s just like me,” I said. “Still in pieces.”
He didn’t argue. He didn’t correct me. He just let its weight sit between us.
The garage smelled like sweat and stone. The air was thick with heat and silence, the kind that felt sacred. This place—these fractured works of art and scattered tools—was the only place that didn’t feel like a lie.
