Samuel thumps his chest, and nods.
Cain hangs his head but then glances back up as he and his brother hold one another’s gazes for a long time. “Okay. I’ll come with you though.”
Samuel is the one to object this time, and once more he signs something.
Cain growls. “Of course, I think you’re old enough, but I don’t think it should all fall on you.” He looks at us briefly. “My brother wants to go home to break the news to Mother, and to help her sort out anything that needs to be done. At some point, I’ll have to return home, too, but right now, I don’t want to leave here.”
“You don’t want to be with your mother?” I ask softly.
Cain’s eyes, when they meet mine, are so weary, it’s as if he’s lived hundreds of lifetimes. “Ophelia, I’m so fucking tired, I just need some time to catch my breath for a couple of days.”
Samuel signs something else, and Cain nods. “But you take Deacon.”
Deacon clears his throat and speaks clearly, making eye contact with Samual. “I can be your right-hand man, Samuel, and I’ll back up the alternative story about what happened to your father, okay?”
Nodding as well, Samuel gives a small smile.
Cain turns to us. “I’ll follow him in a few days. He wants to break the news to her, and honestly, I won’t be much comfort to her anyway. Samuel was always her favorite.”
Tapping his brother on his shoulder to gain his attention, Cain says, “Don’t tell her what really happened. She’d never get over it. Tell her he died in a fight with our enemies.”
Samuel signs again, and Cain blows out a long breath. “You’re right, she might feel some relief, too. He did make her life a misery a lot of the time.”
The drinks flow, and soon, the chat becomes more personal. The three men are trading war stories of the, frankly fucked up, things that happened during their childhoods. They’re trying to keep it light, by only telling darkly humorous tales, but they’re still deeply messed up, and it makes my heart ache.
Deacon shocks me when he speaks up.
“My father once locked me in the cellar for three days with only a bowl of water, because I’d missed collecting a drug drop-off.”
“Your father is as big of an asshole as mine was, then, clearly.” Cain’s words slur a little. He’s a big guy, but he’s drunk a lot and had no food.
That’s something I can do to help. I can cook. Standing, I head toward the kitchen, but Cain snags me and pulls me onto his lap.
A small mewl of protest escapes my lips, but he just chuckles darkly. I’m embarrassed with his brother sitting by us and Deacon in the room.
“Cain let me up,” I demand.
“No. Mine.” He kisses my hair and breathes in.
“Ours,” Malachi corrects.
“She was mine first.” Cain kisses my hair again, and I freeze. This could go all kinds of wrong fast. Cain is drunk. He’s lost his father. Malachi has been on edge from the minute he gotback, and Roman is injured and must be traumatized after what happened with my father.
For the first time in a long time, it strikes me how dangerous these men are. They love me, but they’re big, unpredictable, and at times, fucking crazy.
This situation demands I take control. I push myself off Cain and turn to him.
“You,” I order. “Go and take a shower. I’ll make food and coffee. And, while you’re at it, please show your brother the spare room. He can stay here tonight, surely? It’s too late to travel back now. Deacon, you’ll stay and eat with us, and you can sleep here, too, if you want.”
He smiles at me. “I’ll take a meal, thanks, Ophelia, but the RV is good for me.”
“Mal, you help me in the kitchen, and Roman, can you set out some plates, glasses and utensils?”
To my delighted surprise, all the men do as I say. Cain grumbles under his breath, but he pulls his brother up and slings an arm around his shoulder as he leads him out of the room, swaying slightly.
I have no idea what I’m going to make—it’s not as though anyone has done a grocery run any time recently—so I go through the contents of the refrigerator and pantry. I find some pre-made packets of rice, plus some eggs and ham, some scallions and frozen peas. One thing about growing up in the commune is that I learned from a young age to make meals from whatever we had available.
Thoughts of the commune immediately link my brain back to Daisy and the Prophet. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face, and the blood on my hands after I’d stabbed the man who murdered her. It’s as though I’m carrying a weight around with me, a heaviness in my chest, and even though I’m doing my bestto ignore it and stop my thoughts from taking me there, I keep getting dragged back down.
