Page 144 of Queen of Nothing

I’ve been on autopilot for so long, I can hardly breathe through the pain of switching back on.

Oliver holds me through it.

Time passes in heaves that wrack my body. The ache in my chest is too much, it’s too serrated, too constricted.

Oliver’s arms tighten around me. He hushes softly, until my breathing starts to ease.

Less shudders wrack me.

Less pain aches my chest.

Gradually, the heaves end, and I’m slumped in my brother’s arms, my temple rested against the steady beats of his heart.

Still, he just holds me, patient—a comforting side of Oliver I haven’t known in so long. More than the years I’ve been gone. More than my time on the run in the krum world. This is a side of Oliver I remember from back when we were children, before the dynamics at Bluestone tore us apart.

The night air is quiet and gentle when Oliver’s embrace loosens, and he brings his hands to my shoulders.

“Father doesn’t know yet that Dray stormed out of here,” he says, “But it’s only a matter of time before he finds out.” His hands tighten on my shoulders, squeezing them with reassurance—and draws me back a few inches. “He will come, demanding answers.”

Reluctance slows me down, but I do lift my gaze to Oliver’s soft rainforest eyes.

My pouted mouth trembles.

Blood has dried on my arms, uncomfortable and itchy against my skin. My eyes are swollen and red raw, made worse by the chilly night air.

I understand what Oliver is saying.

I understand what he’s really telling me—even if it takes me a few moments to get it.

I need to get my story right.

Oliver thinks I did something. That I fucked up in yet another classic me way.

He’s the one who doesn’t understand.

Before I can choke out a response, he loops a strong arm around my back, then hoists me up off the glass-littered floor.

My socks dangle above the shards.

He carries me to the blasted doors, and the chill of the night chases us into the bedchamber.

Oliver drops me onto the chaise facing the roaring hearth. Then he draws back for the brass bell above the mantel and gives it a single, curt tug.

Without a word, he sits on the edge of the coffee table and reaches down for my socks.

Gingerly, he peels them off, letting tiny glitterings of glass sprinkle onto the rug.

The soles of my feet are cut. Not like the gash down my palm that I hold to my chest. Just tiny little nicks along my feet, but enough that I wince as I bring them up onto the chaise.

I sit basket-legged and wait.

The hour is late, so most of the house staff will be in bed. So the bell summons Mrs Younge, who then calls for the imps, and when they come to start cleaning the glass and boarding up the broken doors, she returns with salves and bandages for my wounds.

Oliver downs a scotch, weary and mute, then another before he dismisses her.

It leaves just us and the imps.

Oliver cleans the cut on my hand first.