“I can love him just as much,” she protests. “He can be my twin. I love a good twin. Call me Mary Kate.”
I laugh. “See, that’s part of the difference, though. You’rechoosingthat. For him, it’s not a choice. It’s breathing. It’s a beating heart. You’re not twin because he decided that you are. You’re twin because you’re twin.”
She scowls. “Well, I hate that. How dare he found family better than me.”
“I think it’s beautiful,” Millie says, turning back toward us. “That he has all of that in him for us, and that now he gets to have it aimed at him with Sarelia.” She reaches out, laying a hand on my forearm. “We love him,” she whispers. “I promise you, we love him so much, Sarelia. He’s our brother. But… I see what you’re saying. About how it’s different. I hate it, but I seeit.” She takes a deep, shaky breath. “Which means that you have to promise us that you’re going to obsess and yearn and love him so much that he won’t ever feel the absence of what we’re unable to give him again. Okay?Promiseus.”
I blink, sniffing as fat, wet tears fall on Pesky’s head. “I promise,” I assure her. “After all, I’m like him. I have no other choice. Obsessing, yearning, loving—they’re the push and pull of oxygen in my chest and the rush of blood in my veins.”
“In blood!” Heidi exclaims, eyes alight. “That’s perfect! We’ll swear this in blood. We’ll make a blood pact to always love Archie to the best of our abilities in whatever way we’re able.”
“Hear, hear!” Millie agrees without hesitation, sliding her hand off my forearm. “You have a knife?” she asks.
“Of course,” Heidi says, pulling on a chain around her neck to reveal a teensy-tiny little knife dangling from the end.
“Give me your hand, Sarelia,” she orders.
No hesitation on my part, either, I do. Gladly.
After all, what’s a little bit of blood and pain when it comes to Archie? I’d give a whole lot more than this for him.
Long after our blood has clotted and we’ve settled into plush couches in the theater room, Pesky dozing on a cat bed in the corner, I think about just how much more I would give for Archie.
Glancing at their red-tipped fingers, I think that maybe his sisters would give a whole lot more, too.
Chapter Twenty-One
?
Sarelia
The two weeks before my parents arrive at my new home are two of the happiest weeks of my life. I live a dream, waking up every morning to Archie propped up beside me doing nothing more than looking at me, eyelids low over bright brown eyes. When my own eyes flutter open, he kisses my nose before whispering either “my turn” or “your turn” before he rolls out of bed and leaves me until lunch.
On the days when it’s my turn, I start my morning at my desk, checking my laptop to see if he’s decided to stream or not. When Idofind him streaming, I watch, pulling clips to spend my evenings making fan edits out of. It’s the days hedoesn’tstream that are the most fun, though. Days like today. Days when I get toplay.
Pretending to be a super-secret spy girl, I grip my phone in my hand as I tip-toe down a hallway in the maze that is our home. I still haven’t discovered all of the nooks and crannies the house has to offer, even with the tour that Archie gave me, so when I poke at a cracked door to find my husband sitting in the midst of a whole sewing room I’m not surprised, exactly, even as the thrill of shock spreads through my body.
My goodness, he’s enthralling.
Half-dressed, he sews a line down a white linen shirt before cutting excess thread and standing. He shrugs the shirt over naked shoulders, taking his dear, sweet, blessed time buttoning it up while I drool, completely forgetting my mission.
Once buttoned, he unearths a soft red sweater vest from a pile of fabric on what might be a chair, judging by the feet sticking out under it, but could just as easily be a table. The swatches of color reach so high it’s impossible to decipher.
Not that I’m trying all that hard, what with Archieright thereand all.
He sighs, tugging at his collar. “Your camera, my princess,” he says to the room, eyes aimed nowhere near me.
I gasp, then blush, then fumble my phone in my effort to get it up and recording. It clunks horribly against the hardwood flooring, threatening to crack. I wince.
“Sorry!” I squeak, lunging for the phone and knocking my head on the door in the process. It slams the rest of the way open, hitting the wall and ricocheting.
Archie curses as I whimper, landing hard on my hands. I flinch away from the soon-to-be pain of being hit by the door taking its rightful revenge, only to throw myself against the door frame with an unpleasant thwack.
Archie’s hand stops the solid wood from whacking me mere inches before it closes on my pathetic, probably-bruised form.
My breaths come heavy as my skin lights itself on fire, pinks and reds covering me from my ears to my toes.
“Angel,” Archie murmurs, dry amusement coating his tongue. “Your stalking could use a little more work.”
