OPERATION WINTERSPINE (Strings Between Us Book 2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: OF SHADOWS, GHOST SCALPEL PROMISES,

"Your everything," she cuts in. And this time, it's deliberate. Precise. Like she's hitting the target I kept circling but never named.

"She was," she adds. "Maybe... somewhere in you, she still is."

I don't respond. Because pain doesn't lie. It doesn't negotiate. And it doesn't need words to make its point.

I let it sit. Let it sting. Because this is mine—
And I've earned every inch of it.

Keryn pauses—just long enough to let the silence settle like a wire pulled taut. Then, softer than steel should sound, like something half-remembered but never really forgotten.

"You didn't forget, did you?"

I look at her. Warily. Because with Keryn, softness is never uncalculated.

"You bled on her before, Xythe." she continues. "South courtyard of Celestine. Garden stones. Wrought-iron benches. We were thirteen. She almost got kidnapped. You took a blade to the gut and collapsed in her arms."

I close my eyes. Not because I can't remember. Because I do.

"She screamed," Keryn says, voice steady but distant, like she's watching the footage unspool behind her eyes. "She held you and screamed until the med team arrived. You coded twice on the way. Heart stopped. Lyle had to pull her off your body."

I don't speak. Because silence is cleaner than confession.

"She never forgot that day," Keryn says quietly. "Neither did we."

I swallow. Hard. It still hurts. Not the memory. The fact that I gave her that memory.

"She was just a kid," Keryn goes on. "So were you. But you didn't flinch. You didn't even hesitate."

"I knew they'd go through her first," I murmur.

"And she's never forgiven herself for what you did." Keryn's tone flattens into something heavier. "And now you've done it again. You bled for her. Collapsed in front of her. And she wasn't strong enough to watch it this time."

I stay quiet. Not because I have nothing to say— But because every word inside me is made of guilt.

Keryn steps closer. Her hand rests on the rail, but she doesn't touch me. She never has to.

"I'm not Ari," she says. "I'm not here to ask what you feel. But I've fought beside you long enough to know when you're bleeding in more places than one."

I look at her—really look. Past the sarcasm. Past the sharpness. Past the shield she wears better than armor.

She's scared. Of me. For me.

"You act like you don't care what happens to you," she says.

"I care," I whisper.

"Then act like it," she snaps. "Before you make her relive your death again."

Her voice cracks on again. I exhale. Slow. Deliberate. Like pulling glass from the inside.

"I'm not going to die." A beat. "Not yet."

Keryn crosses the room— calculated steps, clipped and quiet. She checks my IV like it personally offended her. Like if it had done its job and knocked me out, maybe I wouldn't be sitting here trying to bleed through stoicism.

"You're an idiot," she mutters, half under her breath.

"I've been called worse," I reply, dry. Automatic.

Still no smile. Just that same steady weight in her shoulders. Like she's carrying something I won't let her name. Like if she relaxes for even a second, I might collapse again.

Thres, silent this whole time, just watches. Like he's reading between the words. Tracking breath patterns, blink rates, microtension.

He doesn't ask. He already knows. Knows I'm still pretending it doesn't burn. Pretending that when I said good, I didn't mean necessary.

Because Ari deserves safe. She deserves soft. She deserves someone who won't make her bleed. Even if that someone carries a ghost inside him.

Even if Echo-9 wakes up one day—rewired, triggered, unleashed. And turns Khaizer into what they built him to be.

Even if the whole thing detonates in our faces. I'll take that risk. Because she didn't run. Because she chose to stay. Because we did.

So hear me now, even if you never remember:

You better be worth bleeding for, Khaizer Dylan Dela Vega. Because I already have. And I will again.