Killian woke at 5 a.m.
Habit. Seven years of prison wake-up calls had rewired his internal clock. He was awake before dawn whether he wanted to be or not.
But this time—this time he wasn't in a cell.
He was in a bed. A real bed. Soft sheets. Warm blankets. And beside him—
Isla. Sleeping. Hair spread across the pillow. Face peaceful in a way he'd never seen during prison visits.
His wife. Actually beside him. Actually touchable. Actually real.
He didn't move. Didn't want to wake her. Just—watched. Memorized. Tried to convince himself this was real and not some elaborate dream he'd wake from to find himself still in a cage.
But it was real. The apartment was real. The bed was real. Isla was real.
He was home. Actually home.
After seven years.
The reality of it hit him like a physical blow. Seven years. He'd missed seven years of Sera's life. Seven years of Isla's transformation. Seven years of—everything.
