I used to think poison was meant to kill.
Turns out, it's meant to measure.
Measure loyalty.
Measure love.
Measure how far one man would go before he breaks.
And tonight, I found out that man was Killian.
I wake in the medical suite again. It's dark except for the dull glow of the monitors, the rhythmic beep reminding me that I'm still here — inconveniently alive.
Killian sits in the corner, half in shadow, staring at the ring on his finger like it's a countdown clock. His shirt is unbuttoned halfway down, sleeves rolled up, forearms tense. He hasn't shaved. His jaw looks like regret carved in bone.
I study him quietly.
Every muscle in his body says alert.
Every inch of me says why?
I clear my throat. "You haven't slept."
He doesn't look up. "Neither have you."
"Apparently, dying is exhausting."
He finally glances over, eyes a dangerous shade of silver under the sterile light. "You didn't die."
"Almost counts," I murmur.
