But she’s also prone to depression. Not without cause. Her life hasn’t been an easy one. And my little brother was terribly sick for a while recently. But she rarely summons me. Not unless something is dire.
“It’s your father.” She wrings her hands, looking so small against the towering live oaks. “He found out that I … strayed.”
I don’t tell her how terrifying that is because I’m still in that bubble—the blip of time that exists before you pick up the phone, before the doctor opens his mouth, before the world as you know it shatters into a fragmented nightmare. That blip is frightening, but still mildly hopeful. Endings and beginnings mingle there.
“Well, what did he expect? He’s been running around on you for twenty-two years.” I shrug, as if she shouldn’t be worried. “What did he say?”
She shakes her head, pacing a well-worn path into the tall grass. “He wants us gone.”
And the blip disintegrates into the flames of Hades.
Us? The guy and her? No. The asshole she had an affair with lives in Vegas. She confided in me about it not long ago. I thought it was over.
“Who?” I bark, white-hot ire streaming through my veins.
Her hand smacks over her mouth, muffling a wounded bleat.
“Who does he want gone?” I repeat again, two seconds from setting this whole neighborhood ablaze.
She can barely get the words out, but somehow, she slows her chattering teeth and strengthens her voice. “Me, Jax, and Rena. If we aren’t gone in three weeks, he said he’ll kill us.”
My stomach lurches. The blood tests my parents had us all take after Jax got sick—Jax and Rena must not be his.
The trees block out every golden ray of sunlight, growing into the arms and fingers of a menacing message. Life will never be the same. My lungs will never function properly again. This will leave its mark on all of us.
“Three weeks,” I parrot.
Her head bobs on a slow nod as she trembles, and tears stain her flushed cheeks. She looks like she hasn’t eaten or slept in days. “He said that was generous and only because he loved you oldest four enough to spare us, but I think it’s because of that event we’re all supposed to go to. One big happy family before he murders us.”
A chill skitters across my skin, but I mask it. She’s probably right. My father is strategic. He’d have thrown her out the minute he found out if there wasn’t a reason to keep her around. It’s certainly not because he loves us. I doubt he intends to even let her run. The event she’s referring to is with the governor, who has been hard to buy off and is a big proponent of family. My father will likely stage an accident after it and use the sympathy for losing my mother and siblings to his advantage.
Her frantic pacing begins again. This time, she’s rambling. “Grandma always thought he’d kill me. She said it every time she saw him, begged me to leave him. She hated him, not that she liked anyone I dated, and I … I just wanted to get out of that little town. He seemed larger than life and swore he’d make all my dreams come true. I knew it was a mistake the first week of our marriage, when he made me quit singing and slept with one of my friends, but I’d made my bed, so to speak. And I thought I could handle it.”
She was already pregnant with me the first week of their marriage. That was why she stayed. For me. Then for Ryker, Maddox, Cash, Jax, and Rena. Always for us.
She stares at me, so desperate and hollow, silently pleading with me to fix it. “But Axel … the babies … I didn’t mean—”
Wrapping her in my arms, I cut off her regret and pledge to remedy this, but I know there’s only one way to stop Hayden Noire. “I’ve got you. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you.” She squeezes me back, sobbing into my chest because she knows what she’s asking me. “I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me, that he had you too programmed.”
I’ve been working for my father for years, since I was seventeen. It’s not as though he hasn’t attempted to program me over the past four years. But that’s why I believe her. Because I’ve seen what he’s capable of. I’ve had to stomach horrid things in the hope that, one day, I’d be able to take over and lead differently.
But even I’m bewildered. Mom, Jax, and Rena? I’ll die before he harms a hair on their heads.
“I will not let anything happen to any of you. I promise. Nothing is more important to me.”
“Get him some water.” That’s Jax’s voice. He’s distressed.
The telltale signs of having a flashback flood my consciousness—rapid heart rate, cold sweat, nausea—before they begin to fade away. I don’t want him to see me like this.
“Already pouring a glass,” Bernard drawls. “Help him sit up.”
The old man’s soothing tenor always calms me. He’s the one person I don’t really have to take care of. I manage a slightly deeper breath and sit up on my own, only to peer into Jax’s dark blue hazels, teeming with concern.
He was eight when our mother died, and it’s as though the fire burned him too. Sometimes, it’s hard for me not to still viewhim as the little boy who clung to me, crying himself to sleep on my chest. He has always had the oddest mix of qualities, a fierceness to his fragility. Even now, his most impressive trait is that he owns it. Where I conceal my struggles, he dons them proudly. Pale blue hair and vibrant tattoos that represent anguish. And a spirit that shouts whatever he’s feeling. He’s largely responsible for the silver specks in my hair, but he’s far braver than I am.
His connection with Rena is so powerful that her getting married and living away from us enhanced all his issues, but he’s been trying. Since Mercy and Tessa joined our family, he’s been a lot better. He’s inebriated less. Gets out of bed at a reasonable hour—by comparison to his previous mid-afternoon wake-up. It’s been about eight months since he caused a therapist to have a nervous breakdown. Maybe I shouldn’t force him to talk to one when there’s so much he can’t divulge, but I’ll risk anything to be sure I don’t fail him. And right now, he’s doing better. He’s painting again too.
