The nightmares. He mentioned them before. PTSD that wakes him up swinging.
"How long have you been awake?" I ask.
"Since we got here."
"Marcus, that was—" I check the clock on the nightstand. "An hour ago. You need to sleep."
"I will. Eventually." I hear him shift in the chair. "Right now, I'm making sure you're safe."
Always protecting. Always watching. Like he doesn't know how to do anything else.
"Can I ask you something?" The words slip out before I can stop them.
"Yeah."
I sit up. Can barely make out his silhouette against the wall in the dim light from under the door. He's still in the same position: arms crossed, alert. Like he's on guard duty.
Maybe he is.
"Do you—" I stop. Start again. "Do you have a troubled relationship with your parents? Like I do?"
"Don't have a relationship with them at all."
"You mean you don't talk to them or—"
"Never met them." His voice is flat. Empty of emotion. "I'm an orphan. My brother too. We grew up in the system. Foster homes, group homes, whatever would take us. Never knew our parents. Don't know if they're alive or dead. Don't particularly care."
Oh.
Oh god.
And here I am complaining about parents who at least existed. Who were there even if they were terrible.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I shouldn't have assumed—"
"Don't apologize." He sounds tired suddenly. Not physically. Deeper than that. "You asked a question. I answered it. That's not something to be sorry for."
"Still. My parents were awful but at least I had them. You and your brother—"
"We had each other." He cuts me off gently. "That was enough. Is enough."
I think about that. About two boys growing up with nothing except each other. No parents. No stability. Just survival.
"Is that why you're so protective of him?" I ask. "Your brother?"
"Yeah." No hesitation. "He's all I've got. All I've ever had that matters. I'd burn the world down before I let anything happen to him."
The certainty in his voice makes my chest tight. That kind of loyalty. That kind of love. I've never had that. Never had anyone who'd choose me first. Who'd fight for me like that.
Until now, maybe.
The thought is dangerous. Presumptuous. Marcus is helping me because it's the right thing to do. Because men were hunting me and he couldn't walk away. Not because—
Not because I'm special to him.
"What about you?" Marcus asks, pulling me from the spiral. "Your parents. What made that relationship troubled?"
I laugh. It comes out bitter. "Where do I start?"
