“Hey, talk to me, Little Bird,” Knox’s gentle voice breaks through my sobs, his face coming into view as he pulls back a little. A pang of guilt at letting my trauma take over runs through me.
“T–this isn’t about m–me,” I hiccup, swiping at my cheeks.
“You’ve just helped me, beautiful. Let me help you,” he pleads, his lashes dipped in moisture and his eyes sparkling with unshed tears.
“My mom snuck Rook and I out for burgers and milkshakes the day she was s–shot,” I tell him, my lower lip trembling. “It was my twelfth birthday, and she wanted to treat me. She stepped out of the diner afterwards and I remember hearing what sounded like a car backfiring and then she was on the ground and there was so much blood.” The memories try to resurface, but although they hurt, they don’t overwhelm me likethey once did. “I held her like Jude did with June, watched as she died. After that, well, you know the rest.”
“Oh, baby.” Knox’s voice is thick again. He pulls me back into him, and I sink into the comfort he’s offering, even though a part of me knows I shouldn’t. That this can’t—won’t—last. “I’m so fucking sorry, Little Bird.”
I draw strength from a man for what feels like the first time in my life as we hold each other, and the guilt doesn’t feel as all-consuming as it usually does.
However, a new guilt rears its ugly head, leaving me with a pain in the back of my throat and a tightness in my chest that no amount of air will ease. It’s for something that is yet to pass, something which I also cannot stop.
After spending the morning dozing in Knox’s arms, hunger forces us to leave the cocoon of safety that his bed now represents, and we head downstairs, hands intertwined.
“Morning, Nightingale!” Jude hollers, bounding over to us and wrapping me up in his arms, taking a deep inhale of my hair like it’s the first full breath he’s taken all morning. “Morning, Daddy Knox.”
Knox growls as I giggle, his hand tightening in mine.
“Is there anything to eat?” I ask Jude, placing a kiss on his scruff-covered chin. “I’m fucking starving.”
“For you, my lady? Anything!” Jude declares, stepping back and giving me what I think is supposed to be a knightly bow, but his untucked, Hawaiian shirt and checkered pants ruin the vibe somewhat. “What would my Nightingale like?”
Before I can answer, Aeron comes storming in, phone pressed to his ear and his face thunderous.
“One second, Dad. I’m putting you on speaker now,” he says, looking at me and placing a finger over his mouth in a ‘be quiet’ gesture.
He strides over to the kitchen island, and we follow, Tarl joining us. Knox has a firm grip of one hand, Jude the other as Aeron sets his phone down and hits the speaker icon.
“Boys,” a deep voice greets, and I shiver at the anger lacing the man’s—clearly Adam Taylor, Aeron and Jude’s father, leader of the Tailors—tone. “Has our little bird sung yet?”
All eyes flick to me, and my pulse picks up, my muscles tensing as if ready for flight. Knox and Jude squeeze my hands to reassure me, but it does little to quell the churning of my stomach.
“Not exactly, but we’re close,” Aeron replies, his ocean eyes trained on me as he speaks.
“Well, that is a shame for her. This morning I had a report that they targeted the stables last night, blown to all fucking hell by Dead Soldier scum.” Sharp intakes follow his words, and my eyes widen, still caught in Aeron’s stare. “We’ve lost some prize horses, including Blue.” Jude stills next to me, and it takes a moment for me to register the name. Blue, or Bluebell, their mother’s horse. A breath rushes out of me at the memory of the beautiful, gentle creature, and her, no doubt, grizzly end.
“And we know it was the Dead Soldiers?” Aeron asks, and I wonder how many other people it might be. How many other enemies they have.
“They left their calling card wrapped around Jim’s bloody neck,” his father replies, and I bite my lips just in time to stifle my gasp of horror. Jim was so kind, and now like so many before him, he’s dead at the hands of my father’s gang. I know what the calling card is; army tags my father likes to drape around the slit neck of his victims. “So, we need to know where these scum arehiding, where they scurry off to, and that little bird of yours needs to fucking tell us.”
I’m still trapped in Aeron’s stare, and for a moment I swear it turns pleading, begging me to tell them. A pit in my stomach opens at that look because I can’t. Not until I’ve secured Rook’s safety, which he’s refused up to this point.
“We will get the information,” Aeron tells his father, his voice tight and jaw clenched. My body stiffens, all my muscles screaming at me to run, far and fucking fast.
“I don’t doubt you, son, but I’ve sent Earl along to help give some…support, perhaps add to your persuasion.”
I shiver at his words, bile stinging the back of my throat. Earl, as I later found out, was the one who opened up my back, and my wounds there twinge as if in memory.
“When will he be here?” Aeron asks, his voice sharp and cutting, like when I first met the heir to the Tailors.
“About an hour, maybe less,” Adam Taylor answers. “Get the intel for me, boys, and let’s take those fuckers down once and for all.”
“Yes, sir,” Aeron says, the others mumbling the same as they all stare at me, sorrow shining in their eyes.
My legs feel weak, and my breaths saw in and out of my throat, the threat of pain leaving me trembling. The warmth and safety from this morning, of lying in Knox’s arms, evaporates like smoke, leaving just uncertainty and terror in its wake.
How much will they hurt me? How far will they go? And how far will I go in order to protect my brother?
