When I strode into the family room, my aunt didn’t acknowledge me. No one did. The room was deathly silent. Glancing around, I realized why. Most of the candles had been extinguished, and darkness enshrouded Jett.
“How bad?” my aunt asked quietly. She sat stiff-backed in an armchair, her features strained.
Ferne knelt on the floor, a hand laced with Jett’s. He lay on the couch, one knee bent, the other leg outstretched, an arm flung across his face to hide himself. His fingers entwined with hers, clenched tighter then released, repeating the motion in time with the waves of pain crashing through him.
“Bad,” he hissed.
Fear flooded my chest like brackish water surging on a high tide.
My brother’s connection with our mother kept everyone tethered to our purpose. In some ways, I thought Jett considered this as a form of punishment and a relief of sorts. Her sufferingmeant she was alive. But no amount of coaxing, bribing, or even yelling would convince him to take some pain medication. He endured the agony along with her. I had done my penance. This was his.
Crushing guilt bore down hard. I went straight for the liquor cabinet, snatched up a bottle and poured the whiskey into a crystal tumbler. I slammed it back, heat stinging my throat, then poured another. None of us knew how long the torture would last or even if she’d survive.
Behind me, I heard the whisper of fabric and guessed my sister had risen. Her footsteps crossed stone, then rugs, and returned to stone again as she approached. She leaned a hip against the liquor cabinet, felt for the tumbler in my hand and stole it from me.
“Ferne,” I warned.
She held up a finger. “Don’t care, Gray. Tonight…it’s gone straight to hells.” Arching her neck back, she swallowed a mouthful of whiskey. Her face scrunched up with disgust as she shook her head, her dark hair flicking about her shoulders. “Ew.”
I pried the tumbler from her grip and refilled it.
“Where is she?” Ferne asked.
“Locked away.”
“Your rooms?”
“Yes.”
She angled herself subtly toward my aunt, who was in close conversation with Kenton. Caidan had taken vigil beside Jett, sitting with his back against the couch, his hands clasped between his bent knees.
Ferne leaned closer. “Are you insane, Gray? Aunt Valarie is going to—”
“Don’t want to hear it.”
She scowled.
I did not give a fuck.
She huffed, and then her shoulders dipped as something troubling rippled across her expression as she stared downward, running her fingers over the mirrored surface of the liquor cabinet. “How long did Danne have her trapped?”
At that name—thatfuckingname—hate surged in great icy waves and turned everything into a haze of red. He got away with too much. Hurt her too much. Not as much as he’d wanted—and that was a small, pathetic blessing.
My sister, through whatever means she had, sensed the rage blustering through my veins. She rested a hand over mine, stroking a comforting touch back and forth.
Calm. I had to calm down.
Drawing a deep breath, I exhaled, repeating it until my racing heart steadied and I locked down the fury. I tipped my neck back, draining the whiskey, then tapped my finger against the rim of the empty tumbler, watching the barest of candlelight splinter across the crystal before finally answering quietly, “Too long.”
A small, pained sound came from Ferne. She squeezed my hand. “I’m not sorry you ended him.”
“I didn’t. Nelle did.”
I could feel her surprise, could taste it.
Anguish broke her voice as she glanced upward. “Gray…what are we doing?”
A heavy sigh rose from my chest, but the words were cold and flat. “Finding our mother. Isn’t this the only thing we’ve been doing all these years?” I set the tumbler on the cabinet. The hollow strike against mirrored-glass too loud in the stillness.
