POV: Chloe

Three days.

I sat by Ethan's bed for seventy-two hours straight. I gripped his hand whenever his beast clawed out, twisting him into a monster.

Tristan visited daily. He stood across the room, wearing a blank mask.

Morning rounds. That’s what the nurses called it.

He fired sharp questions at the doctors and drank in their answers.

Then, he’d stare at me over his brother's still body.

On day two, Ethan stirred. Tristan was still there.

Ethan didn't open his eyes. He blindly grabbed my hand—a needy reflex to make sure I hadn't bailed.

I laced my fingers through his, rubbing my thumb over his knuckles. His brow...