Emilia POV:

The house was too quiet.

Not the dangerous kind of quiet I was used to—the kind where silence meant something bad was coming—but the still, steady kind that felt foreign.

Like the house itself was holding its breath.

I sat on the edge of the massive bed in the room they said was mine now, staring at the untouched walls. The bed was too soft, the blankets too heavy. It felt like it could swallow me whole.

I pulled my knees to my chest, wincing when the movement tugged at the cast on my ankle.

I hated this.

The quiet.

The stillness.

The way my skin prickled even though I knew there was no one else here.

But was there?

My eyes flicked to the corner of the room.

No cameras.

No locks on the door.

They told me I could leave whenever I wanted.

But I didn't believe them.

Not really.

A soft knock startled me.

"Emilia?" Matteo's voice, gentle as ever.

I didn't answer.

The door creaked open slightly, and Matteo peeked in. He held a tray in his hands, carefully balanced.

"Thought you might want some tea. Chamomile. Helps with sleep."

I didn't move.

Matteo didn't come closer.

"I can leave it here if you want." He placed the tray delicately on the dresser, as if even the sound of the porcelain touching wood might scare me off.

I swallowed hard.

He didn't leave.

But he didn't come closer either.

"Luca wants to show you the garden tomorrow," Matteo said softly. His smile was thin but kind. "It's peaceful. Might be nice to get some air."

I didn't know how to answer.

Matteo didn't expect me to.

"Goodnight, amore."

Then he was gone.

The door clicked softly shut behind him.

I stared at the tea until it went cold.

POV: Nico

The kitchen light flickered slightly overhead, casting sharp shadows across the marble counters.

I stood at the sink, gripping the edge so hard my knuckles ached.

I could still see the way Emilia had flinched this morning, like we were monsters.

Like I was a monster.

And wasn't I?

I'd told myself I'd keep my distance. That I didn't have the patience for this kind of thing. Matteo was soft enough for all of us. Raffaele could make her laugh eventually. Luca... well, Luca could scare the devil himself into obedience.

But me?

I was a hammer.

Not a bandaid.

But then Matteo had told us everything

About the scars.

The broken bones that never healed right.

The fear.

And it made me sick.

Because I knew that kind of pain.

And it made me angrier than I knew what to do with.

"She's still not talking to anyone?"

Luca's voice was low behind me.

I didn't turn around.

"No." My voice felt like gravel. "Barely eating, barely sleeping."

"She's scared."

"No shit."

Silence stretched between us.

"She flinched when I set my fork down."

Luca didn't respond.

I slammed my palm against the counter, the sound echoing in the empty kitchen.

"I scared her, Luca." My voice cracked in a way I hated. "I wasn't even doing anything, and I scared her."

Luca sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "It's not about you. You know that."

"That doesn't make it better."

"Then what do you want to do? Huh? Lock yourself in your room and wait for her to magically get better?"

I glared at him over my shoulder.

"Because that's not how this works, Nico. She's here. She's ours now. And we don't give up on family."

I hated when he was right.

Luca's voice dropped lower.

"You want to help her? Then show her she doesn't have to be scared of us."

I ground my teeth.

"How?"

"Start small. Be there. Don't force her. Just... be there."

That sounded too easy.

And impossible.

But what else was I supposed to do?

Luca clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder.

"We've all got our scars, Nico. But she's still bleeding. Don't make it worse."

I didn't answer.

Because I couldn't.

Emilia's POV:

The shadows in the corners of the room felt alive.

They stretched and crawled along the walls, dark and suffocating, wrapping around me like cold hands.

"You think you can hide from me?"

The voice slithered through the air, sharp and biting.

No. No, no, no—

I couldn't move. My body was frozen, limbs heavy, throat too tight to scream.

The door creaked open.

He was there.

Grinning.

Holding something in his hand.

Run.

But my legs wouldn't listen.

Run.

He was closer.

I couldn't—

RUN.

I shot up, choking on a scream that never left my throat.

My chest heaved as I clutched the sheets, damp with sweat. The room was dark, the air too thick to breathe.

I wasn't there.

I wasn't there.

But it still felt like I was.

My throat burned, raw and dry.

I needed water.

The house was quiet, eerily so.

Every shadow seemed darker, every creak in the walls sharper.

I didn't care.

I needed to move.

Slipping out of bed, I hugged my arms around myself, wincing as the cast on my ankle scraped the floor.

The hallway stretched endlessly, shadows dripping down the walls like ink.

But I kept going.

The kitchen was dark, bathed in slivers of moonlight through the tall windows.

I reached for a glass in the cabinet, hands trembling so hard it nearly slipped from my fingers.

The cold water burned going down, but it wasn't enough to wash away the feeling crawling under my skin.

Snap.

A floorboard creaked.

I froze.

My breath hitched, shallow and sharp.

Snap.

Closer.

Too close.

No.

No, please—

The glass slipped from my shaking hands.

It hit the tile.

Shatter.

The sound ripped through the silence like a gunshot.

My heart nearly stopped.

No, no, no!

I dropped to the floor, panic surging through me like fire.

Clean it up. Hide it. Don't let him see.

My hands scrambled for the shards, grasping blindly.

The glass sliced deep into my palms, but I didn't stop.

Blood smeared across the floor, hot and sticky.

I could feel it trickling down my wrists, pooling on the tile.

My knees dug into the smaller shards, but I didn't move.

Faster.

Faster.

I didn't hear the footsteps.

Didn't hear the voices.

Only the rush of blood in my ears.

I didn't notice them until they were standing there.

All of them.

Four shadows in the doorway.

Watching.

But I couldn't stop.

Couldn't breathe.

Couldn't—

POV: Matteo

Glass.

Breaking.

The sound jolted me awake.

I was on my feet before I even processed it, Luca right behind me.

"Nico—" Luca's voice was sharp, but Nico was already ahead of us.

Raffaele stumbled behind, half-asleep.

The kitchen light flicked on.

And there she was.

Emilia.

On the cold floor, hunched over broken glass, blood dripping from her hands and knees.

Desperately trying to clean it up.

She doesn't even see us.

My stomach turned.

"Emilia," I said softly, but it felt too loud in the silence.

Nothing.

Her hands moved faster, glass slicing deeper.

I took a slow step forward.

"Amore... you're safe. Please, look at me."

No response.

Her hands trembled violently now, slick with blood.

"Emilia," I tried again, softer. "Please, piccolina. Look at me."

Her movements slowed.

And then, finally, her wide, terrified eyes met mine.

My chest tightened.

"Good... that's good," I whispered.

I crouched down slowly.

"I won't touch you. I promise. But I need to help, okay?"

Her breathing hitched.

A tiny, barely-there nod.

"Brava, amore. You're so brave."

I turned to Luca. "Get the kit. Nico, towels. Raff, water."

They moved without question.

Luca returned first, handing me the kit.

"She's freezing," Luca muttered, his voice tight.

I swallowed hard.

"Okay, piccolina," I murmured, opening the kit. "I need to take the glass out now, all right? I promise I'll stop if if you need me too, tereso."

She stared, but didn't pull away.

"Okay," I breathed. "Okay."

Piece by piece, I carefully removed the shards.

Her hands twitched with every sting, but she didn't fight me. The only reason I would ever remove glass shards from her skin without preparation was because I knew she was in a state of shock. Barely able to register anything. If I were to do it when the shock wears off, she would she in much more pain.

"Almost done, amore," I whispered.

Luca draped a blanket over her shoulders.

She didn't react.

But she didn't pull away.

"Brava," I whispered.

I cleaned the wounds gently, wiping the blood away.

"Sorry, piccola, this will sting."

Her hands jerked, but I kept murmuring soft words.

"Almost done. Just a little more."

The deeper cuts needed stitching.

I worked slowly, hands steady.

"Mi dispiace, amore... I'm so sorry."

Her breathing was shallow, but she let me finish.

Finally, I wrapped her hands in soft gauze.

"No more glass," I said softly. "All done."

But she was still shaking.

Still lost.

I wiped a smear of blood from her cheek with the edge of the blanket.

"Let's get you back to bed, amore."

Her head barely moved.

Not a nod.

Not a refusal.

It was enough.

Slowly, carefully, I slid an arm under her, lifting her gently.

She didn't lean in.

But she didn't fight me.

Luca led the way, Nico silent and tense behind us.

Raffaele hovered, eyes wide and wet.

None of us spoke.

Not a word.

We tucked her in, bandages peeking out from under the blankets.

Her chest rose and fell, finally still.

But none of us moved.

None of us slept.