[CONTENT TEMPLATE HERE]

Chapter 730:

“Don’t,” she repeated. “Don’t make this worse. Don’t give him—” she gestured at Crawford, at the witnesses, at the absolute disaster of public spectacle, “—don’t give him what he wants. Which is evidence. Of your instability. Your violence. Your absolute unfitness to be anywhere near me p>

Cole’s arm dropped. The pitcher hit the table with a sound like a gunshot, water spreading across the oak, dripping to the floor.

“June,” he whispered. “Please. I know things now. About Alycia. About—” he stopped, swallowed, “—about everything. I was wrong. I was wrong about everything, and I need you to know that I p>

“Cole, look around you p>

The words landed between them like stones. Cole flinched, actually flinched, as if she had struck him.

“This is a place of peace,” June continued, her voice soft and precise, the tone she used for specimens that had failed to thrive. “And you bring nothing but noise. Your revelations, your apologies—they are just more noise. I have found quiet. And you are not welcome in it. Leave p>

ѕ𝗵𝖺𝗿e уо𝘂𝗿 𝘵h𝗼𝘶𝘨h𝗍s 𝗼n

Cole made a sound—half sob, half scream, the vocalization of a man being eviscerated with words.

“Let’s go,” Crawford said. He was already standing, already lifting her, his arms sliding beneath her with practiced ease. “Brother Thomas, thank you for your hospitality. We’ll be leaving now p>

“June!” Cole’s voice rose, desperate and cracking. “Don’t go with him. Don’t p>

She didn’t look back.

Crawford carried her through the refectory, past the staring brothers, past Cole, who stood frozen at the table with water spreading around his feet and destruction in his eyes.

The door closed behind them. The mountain air hit her face, cold and clean, and June let herself breathe—let herself feel the relief of escape, the particular freedom of having survived another encounter with her past.

“Well,” Crawford said. His voice was light, almost cheerful, carrying the satisfaction of a man who had won without fighting. “That was illuminating p>

“Put me down p>

“Your ankle p>

“Put. Me. Down p>

He did. Carefully, on the widest part of the path, where she could lean against a tree and balance on her good leg and glare at him with everything she had.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t say it. Don’t tell me how right you were, how dangerous he is, how I need you to protect me from p>

“I wasn’t going to say that.” Crawford’s expression shifted, the mask slipping to reveal something more serious beneath. “I was going to say that I’m sorry. For what I did. At the well. The lock.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew the knife he’d used on her boot, and held it out to her, handle first. “Take it. Keep it. Use it on me if I ever—” he stopped, swallowed, “—if I ever do something like that again without your permission p>

June stared at the knife. At his hand, steady and offering. At his face, stripped of performance, showing something that might have been genuine regret.

“You’re manipulating me,” she said. “Even now. Especially now. Because you know—” she laughed, harsh and broken, “—you know that offering me a weapon is the only thing that might make me trust you p>