Chapter 418

The maple forest cradled a charming cottage in its embrace. The surroundings were pristine, the air crisp with the scent of autumn leaves—an ideal sanctuary for healing.

Evelyn Carter tightened her grip on Rosalind Fairchild's hand as they approached. Her voice was hushed but urgent.

"His name is Donovan Blackwood. Thirty years old. Former anti-narcotics officer with a decorated career—brave, relentless."

She exhaled sharply.

"For years, he worked undercover near the borders of Aldenria. Infiltrated cartels, orchestrated cross-border raids. Never wavered from his mission."

Rosalind listened, her brow furrowing.

"Because of him, countless shipments were seized. Lives saved."

Evelyn's voice cracked.

"But this time... they found out. Tortured him for days. By the time they got to him, he wasn’t breathing."

A pause. The weight of it pressed between them.

"The doctors brought him back. But when he woke up—" Evelyn swallowed hard. "—he couldn’t see. Couldn’t walk. And he hasn’t stopped wishing they’d let him die."

Rosalind’s jaw clenched. "If the job was that dangerous, why can’t he fight through this? Why give up?"

Evelyn’s laugh was bitter. "Living like this? It’s worse than death. At least a martyr’s end would mean something." She hesitated. "There’s more. His first love betrayed him."

Rosalind stiffened. "His girlfriend sold him out?"

"Not his girlfriend. His first love. They broke up years ago. He found her in a cartel den—trapped, manipulated into running drugs."

Evelyn’s nails dug into her palms.

"He tried to save her. She spat in his face. Believed every lie the cartel fed her. Then she told them everything—that Donovan trained at Aldenria’s police academy, that he’d been undercover for months."

Rosalind’s breath hissed between her teeth. "Where is that bitch now?"

"Donovan dragged her out before the raid. She walked away unharmed. He didn’t." Evelyn’s voice dropped to a whisper. "They broke him. When they were done, he prayed to die. Now he’s blind. Paralyzed. And she’s never even visited."

They reached the cottage.

Evelyn hesitated at the door, her hand trembling. "He’s not the man you’re expecting."

Rosalind shoved the door open without knocking.

The stench of whiskey and despair hit like a wall. Sunlight fought through cracks in the curtains, losing to the gloom. The air was thick with something unspeakable—grief, maybe. Or rage.

"Get. Out."

The voice was a blade—rusted, jagged, but lethal.

Evelyn flinched. "Donovan, it’s me. Cassandra. I brought someone—Rosalind Fairchild. She wants to—"

A bottle shattered at their feet. Glass skittered across the floor.

Evelyn stumbled back, pale.

Rosalind stepped in front of her, eyes scanning the shadows. "You okay?"

Evelyn nodded, shaky.

Rosalind turned toward the darkness. "He’s really blind? Can’t walk?"

Another nod.

"Good."

Before Evelyn could stop her, Rosalind strode inside. Past the wreckage of furniture. Past the man slumped in a chair like a discarded weapon.

She wrenched the curtains open.

Light exploded into the room.

Donovan Blackwood snarled, recoiling—but Rosalind was already at the balcony doors, throwing them wide. A gust of wind rushed in, scattering papers, stirring the stale air.

The cottage breathed again.

And for the first time in months, so did he.