Chapter 6

The sharp, wailing siren of an ambulance pierced through the heavy rain outside the manor. Red and blue lights flashed through the massive living room windows, painting the walls in chaotic colors.

Two EMTs rushed into the room carrying a stretcher, breaking the suffocating tension.

Arla instantly stepped back. She dropped the bloody cotton ball into the trash can and let her shoulders slump, perfectly resuming her role as the terrified, exhausted victim.

The EMTs quickly assessed Blair's face. One of them looked at the medical supplies on the table and nodded at Arla. "Good call on the aggressive sterilization. Saved her from a nasty infection."

Blair was lifted onto the stretcher. As they wheeled her past Arla, Blair turned her head. Her eyes were locked onto Arla, filled with a toxic mix of hatred and deep, paralyzing fear.

Arla kept her head bowed, refusing to meet her gaze, playing the part of the traumatized sister to perfection.

The ambulance doors slammed shut outside, and the siren faded into the distance. The butler let out a long sigh and ordered the maids to start scrubbing the blood out of the rug.

He offered to call the private family doctor for Arla, but she shook her head, claiming she just needed to sleep off the shock.

She turned and walked behind the sofa. Caden was standing exactly where she had left him, perfectly still.

Arla reached out and grabbed his freezing little hand. She kept her posture straight and her steps measured as she walked them down the long corridor to her bedroom at the far end of the wing.

The second they crossed the threshold, Arla slammed the heavy door shut behind them.

She reached up and hit the deadbolt. A loud, solid click echoed in the room.

She didn't stop there. She walked over to the windows and yanked the heavy blackout curtains shut, completely sealing the room off from the outside world.

With the physical barrier established, the adrenaline that had been keeping her upright suddenly evaporated.

Arla turned around. She looked at Caden standing by the edge of the bed. He was breathing. He was alive.

The image of his cold, dead body on the basement floor crashed into her mind, violently colliding with the reality of him standing right in front of her.

Arla's knees buckled. She collapsed onto the thick carpet.

She threw her arms open and dragged Caden against her chest, holding him so tightly she felt his ribs against hers.

A year's worth of suffocating grief, crushing guilt, and the explosive relief of having him back shattered her control.

Arla buried her face in the crook of Caden's small neck and broke down. She sobbed uncontrollably, her whole body shaking as hot tears soaked the collar of his pajamas.

Caden stiffened. He was terrified by his mother's sudden collapse.

But then, his tiny hands came up. He wrapped his arms around her neck and began to clumsily pat her back.

"Don't cry, Mommy," Caden whispered, his voice soft and trembling. "Caden is here. Caden isn't scared."

Hearing him try to comfort her made the pain in Arla's chest infinitely worse. She cried harder, pulling him closer, feeling his actual body heat, his heartbeat. It wasn't a dream. She had saved him.

After a few minutes, the violent sobbing slowly subsided. Arla took a shaky breath and loosened her grip. She pulled back just enough to cup his small face in her hands.

She pressed a long, trembling kiss to his forehead, silently swearing to burn the world down before letting anyone hurt him again.

She went to pull away to wipe her face. As she moved, Caden's oversized pajama sleeve slipped down his arm, bunching up at his elbow.

The bright bedroom lights hit his exposed skin.

The hot tears instantly froze on Arla's cheeks. The explosive, overwhelming relief that had flooded her veins just moments ago suddenly turned to absolute ice. Her breath caught sharply in her throat, her mind violently halting its emotional spiral. This wasn't a one-time event. It was a long, silent torture that had been happening right under her nose. In that single, terrifying instant, her suffocating grief didn't just vanish; it crystallized into something harder, colder, and infinitely more dangerous. Arla froze. Covering the pale, soft skin of his forearm was a dense, sickening cluster of dark purple bruises and tiny, red puncture wounds.