In the arms of no one (Completed)

Chapter 8.

Vallon's POV

Time doesn't exist right now.

Not really.

Even though there are warm arms around me and someone keeps whispering you're safe, you're safe, I feel anything but. Safe is a concept I abandoned long before boarding that flight. Safe is a fairy tale for people who don't know how quickly the world can chew you up and spit you out.

In my mind, I'm back there. That dark, twisted place where secrets fester like mold and punishment isn't just physical — it's mental, emotional, carved into every inch of your being. Where sanity is optional and survival is a full-time job with zero benefits.

I'm back in the place where the world forgets I exist. Where the only thing that's real is being utterly, impossibly alone.

But these arms — solid, warm, and unrelenting — insist otherwise. They promise me a lie I almost want to believe: that I am safe. That someone actually gives a damn.

And maybe that's the cruelest thing of all. The lie is fragile, but I clutch it anyway, because the alternative — staring into the void of myself without a rope — terrifies me more than the darkness ever could.

I fight. God, I fight. Clawing my way out of the chaos embedded in my own brain, one ragged breath at a time. Even if all I'm doing is piecing together a hollow shell of Vallon, the one who walked off a plane to a warm country and a family she barely knows.

Bit by bit, my lungs start cooperating. The knife lodged in my chest eases its pressure — not gone, just quiet enough to function. The room reassembles itself from fuzzy fragments. Shapes, colors, sounds: everything snaps back into focus.

My face is wet, my chest aches, and I am, impossibly, in the arms of Aunty Liz.

The room is quiet. Too quiet. I can't tell if everyone else fled during my little meltdown, or if they're all still there, frozen in that stupid human tendency to stare at the train wreck they can't fix.

She pulls back slightly, eyes soft with worry, dabbing at my damp face. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

Curiosity, guilt, and a little fury bubble up in equal measure. She's the second adult in two and a half days who's apologized for something that wasn't her fault. It makes me want to curl up, small and apologetic, because why do I feel like I ruined everything?

"It's not your fault," I mutter, shaking my head. The words sound foreign in my own mouth, but they are the purest truth I've ever said aloud.

I step back from her warmth and notice the room properly for the first time. It's smaller, cozier than the main hall. Leather couch. Fireplace. Bookshelves stacked high with novels and files alike. Across from it, a massive dark wood desk with all the accoutrements of someone who's organized their life to a terrifying degree: laptop, files, pens, desk lamp, a chair that looks like it could double as a throne.

Liz smiles gently. "If you want, you can stay here for a few minutes. I can bring food, or I can send everyone home. Your choice."

I nod, offering a faint, apologetic smile. "I just...need a minute. I don't want the effort you and Uncle Tom put in to go to waste. I'm...honored that you even thought to do this."

Her smile deepens. "Babe, you don't owe anyone a performance. We just wanted you to eat and meet a few people before settling in. But I'm glad you want to join. Truly. No pressure."

Yeah. Right. People are judgmental assholes. It's not her fault, though — just biology, I guess.

I flop onto the couch, jeans and all, needing to let my brain and body unravel for a few precious moments.