Page 22 of Healed

Home.

It was a strange word to use for my clubhouse when talking about Gabriella. Stranger still that Dante was the one to say it. And even more strange that after all these years… it still felt right.

“She really came to you?” I asked, knowing my brother wouldn’t lie to me, but needing to hear it anyway.

“No. She came for you. I was just the next best thing once we realised how stupid you were.”

I closed my eyes as I processed what that meant.

After all these years, after everything, she had finally—finally—come to me.

And that gave me the strength to move.

I forced myself away from the wall I had stumbled into. Or at least attempted to. My knees had developed a personality of their own and, unfortunately, that personality seemed to be cowardice. Dante stepped in before I hit the ground, taking my weight with a muttered curse.

“I can walk,” I said.

“Sure you can. That’s why you look like fucking Bambi.”

“I think Bambi is cute.”

“I think you can’t walk,” Dante shot right back.

“I’m walking now!”

“You can barely stand.”

“I’m also standing now.”

“You’re also leaning on me.”

“This is typical of you, Dante, you know that? I’m not just leaning on you. I’m allowing you to feel useful.”

“You’re about two seconds away from being carried.”

“Try it and I’ll bite you,” I said, baring my teeth at him and gnashing them together.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“That was one time, and in my defence, Rachel dared me.”

“She dares you to do a lot of things. Most grown men learn to say no.”

“Most grown men are boring.”

Dante snorted, but he didn’t let go of me.

And I let him pretend he wasn’t holding me up.

That was the thing about brotherhood. It wasn’t always pretty. It wasn’t always soft. Sometimes it was a man insulting you while discreetly keeping you on your feet because he knew you were too proud, too stupid, or too broken to ask.

We left Michelle behind.

The guilt of it nearly brought me to my knees, but Dante’s hand tightened at my side, and I forced my feet to move. One step. Then another. Every movement sent agony tearing through my ribs and down my spine, and by the time we reached the stairs, I was sweating so badly I could feel it running cold beneath my cut.

The climb up was a personal attack.

By step four, I had reconsidered every decision I had ever made. By step seven, I was fairly certain the stairs were multiplying. By step twelve, I decided that whoever invented basements deserved to be dragged outside and shot. By the top, I was breathing like an old dog in hot weather, and Dante was pretending not to notice.