It seemed hours ago now that he and Daphne had been curled up beneath these blankets, his primary concern about when to propose.
He shifted Damian, careful not to jostle the shoulder he suspected was dislocated.
Damian’s face twitched with pain but he didn’t wake.
Damian was his half-brother. Newly discovered. Barely acknowledged. But none of that mattered. He was half-frozen, bruised, broken, and lying silent on a bed that’d been meant to offer solace to Abe and Daphne… but now cared for the brother he didn’t even know.
“You idiot,” he muttered under his breath, brushing damp hair off Damian’s forehead to check for a head injury. That blood had to be coming from somewhere. “What the hell were you trying to do? Run from the world?”
She returned with blankets. He helped her tuck them around Damian’s thin frame, hating the deep scars on his face that marred his good looks. His skin was too cold, and when Abe held Damian’s wrist, he felt the tremor just under the surface. Shock. Cold exposure. Maybe a concussion. Maybe more.
“His shoulder’s out of place,” Abe said. “Dislocated or worse.”
She hovered nearby, her eyes wide and worried. “Should we fix it?”
“I don’t want to risk making it worse. We need a doctor.”
He pulled the SAT phone from his coat pocket and hit the button again. Nothing. Not even static.
He threw the phone onto the bedside table, and it knocked over the nutcracker ornaments he’d fixed earlier. “Uncle Gage recently installed an emergency beacon. It’s by the stove. It’s a black box, about the size of a walkie-talkie, with a red rubber cover over the button. Flip it up and hold the button until the green light flashes. That means it’s broadcasting.”
“How long will it take?” she asked, her voice tight.
He shook his head. “Depends on the weather and if the signal gets through. Could be an hour. Could be all night. Or a week. But it’s our best shot.”
“Got it.” She disappeared and a moment later she said loudly, “Did it! I’ll also revive the fire.”
She banged around logs in the sitting room until the flames picked up, warming the bedroom.
He exhaled, fighting the familiar coil of frustration in his gut. Damian’s situation was why he didn’t like to get close to people. This was why he liked rules and plans.
But Damian hadn’t come here with a plan. He’d come with a history Abe had never asked for and features too much like their father’s.
He sat on the edge of the bed and watched his brother’s chest rise and fall.
She handed him a wet dish towel. “You always take care of people who’ve hurt you.”
He used the towel to wipe the blood off Damian’s temple. “I don’t know how not to.”
Because this wasn’t about forgiveness. It was about being better. About refusing to become the kind of man who mistook walls for strength and left a legacy of silence behind.
Damian stirred, just once, lips parting in a soundless breath. Then he went quiet again.
Abe stayed seated beside him. Just in case. Because even if they’d wasted years,thiswas a start.
CHAPTER 5
An hour later,Daphne stood in the bedroom doorway, stirring her hot chocolate even though the marshmallows had long since melted.
Damian lay motionless in the big bed, swaddled in every blanket she’d found. Abe was slumped in the leather chair beside him, fast asleep under his parka, boots on, one foot propped awkwardly on the mattress. The fire hissed low in the hearth, casting flickers of amber across the floor. Outside, storm winds rattled the windowpanes, clawing the glass, desperate to get in.
Her toes were cold. Her fingers ached from their trek. But it wasn’t the physical discomfort that kept her standing there. It was the weight in her limbs. The strange, sinking stillness that felt less like rest and more like defeat.
She’d eaten nearly all the chocolate fudge brownies Lily had left them. She hadn’t even been hungry. Just…empty.Her brain buzzed, but her body moved with an unusual sluggishness and her lungs hurt like she was trying to breathe underwater.
She’d turned into a ghost. Pale. Floating. Unseen. Just like last week, when she’d locked the studio door and attempted the Sugar Plum Fairy adagio without anyone watching. A quiet test. A hopeful one. She’d told herself she was ready. Six months oftraining. Manhattan physical therapy four times a month. Yoga. Pilates. The gym in Milltown. Hours and hours of repetition.
And she hadn’t danced like she used to. Not even close.
