He lets me go and I stare back down at Reid, brushing his hair from his forehead.That’s when I notice the contusion on my forearm.I take stock of us both, noticing we have a few more bumps and cuts that I didn’t see before.
A tear falls, landing on his forehead, smudging the soot.
He’s okay.
We’re okay.
Everyone is okay.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Reid
Ipace the living room, the soles of my feet wearing into the old, beaten rug.These four walls, the pictures of our life hanging on them, the ring-shaped heat marks staining the coffee table, even the tear in the rug from where my brother tried to scrub out red wine, all used to bring me comfort.Theymadeour home a home.The next closest thing was the kitchen.They are the centre of our family, where we all spend time together.Yet nothing, not even my mum’s fussing—the soul of our family—is helping the anger coursing through my veins.It’s only grown in intensity since the moment my eyelids fluttered open to the most angelic sight.
I want blood for this.
Rivers of it.
I want to make them pay.
Allof them.
Each time I get a glimpse of the cuts and bruises marking Summer’s toned flesh, and see the tremble in her body and the distance in her eyes, the desire for revenge eats at me even more.
She is innocent in all of this.She smiles with her eyes, laughs with her entire body, and radiates warmth—when she isn’t bitching at me about something.Now, only a shell is present.Not even a hair should have been moved out of place on her, yet somehow, these monsters have taken who she is at her core.Or at least, they have for right now.I know deep down this is shock, but it enrages me nonetheless.
None of us know how Todd is doing.His mum showed up, enraged, screaming at us to leave.His dad promised they didn’t blame us, that it was just a stressful time.In my head, I know he’s right, yet the feeling in the pit of my stomach is carrying a lot of blame.We should have sent people home from the very beginning of this war.
Too many innocents are being hurt.
“Will you stop fucking pacing,” Luke snaps at me, his lip curling.“You’re giving me motion sickness.”
I narrow my eyes at my brother.“You get knocked unconscious and see how you feel about it.I’ve been stabbed, nearly barbequed, and now nearly blown up into tiny pieces.You have ascratchon you.”
“I wouldn’t call having six stitches a scratch,” he mutters.
