Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Over and over we replay the message on Sable’s phone.
Zane managed to send her a video just before he blew the barn. She didn’t see it until we returned back, broken and barely hanging on, and when she saw it, her cries could be heard from across the compound. She rushed over and played it for all of us.
Now I’m crying again, big heavy sobs.
I don’t know if it’s a relief or if it just makes me feel worse.
“Even in his last moments, he’s still telling us off,” Mera croaks, her eyes welling with tears.
Knox scoops Sable’s phone off the table and replays the message one more time. Mera curls herself into a ball on the couch, making little whimpery gasps between breaths, and Sable just sits with her elbow on the table, lips pressed into a straight line so tight it’s nearly white. Nia is in Talon’s arms, her head buried into his chest. Every room in the clubhouse feels too small tonight, like all this pain is crowding out the walls.
I can’t sit.
I get up and walk down the hall, pacing, my heart pounding in my head. Knox finds me and snags my wrist, tugging me towards the door. “Come on,” he mutters, voice barely a scrape, “you need to wash that off.” I look down at my hands, my arms. Black smudges and rusty brown. I don’t even know if it’s soot or blood. There is probably both.
He pulls me outside, not letting go, not even when I stumble or try to stop. His grip isn’t hard, but it’s unbreakable, and part of me is glad he’s not giving me a choice. If he didn’t drag me somewhere, I think I’d shatter.
He stops outside his room, nudges me inside, follows. The door isn’t even closed before he guides me straight to the ensuite. He just gestures to the glass stall. “Get in.”
I flinch at the abruptness, but then he tugs the elastic from my hair, and my knees almost melt. He yanks his own shirt off like it’s nothing, and then helps peel mine over my head. My jeans are wrecked, streaked with something mud-like, and I am grateful when he just crouches and strips them off, careful not to look at my face. He’s gentle as he does it, hands strong but hesitant.
He undresses in seconds. For a moment we just stand in the foggy mirror, staring at our own destroyed reflections. I look like a creature dredged from a river, eyes red to the rims and skin streaked gray. Knox looks worse, because you can see every muscle in his chest jump and flex with each shallow breath he takes. He isn’t crying, but his jaw is cracked so tight he could bite through steel.
He steps into the shower with me, still holding my hand. The glass door thunks shut and for a moment it’s silent except for the ragged sound of Knox’s breathing. Then he turns on the water. The spray hits us both—icy cold at first, and I yelp, but soon it’s warm, then hot, and I collapse against the tile.
He props my chin up, then cups the back of my skull, keeping my head out of the spray as the filth sluices off me in streaks. When my hair clings to my face, he combs it aside with his fingers. He doesn’t talk at all, just keeps steady hands on me, moving with care that feels like something holy.
My legs give out, and I start to slide to the floor, but he catches me, letting us both sink down until we’re on the ground together, the water beating down on us. The steam is heavy, almost suffocating, and I let my forehead rest on his shoulder. The only words I can form are “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t answer.
For a long time, we do nothing but sit in the rush of water. My body is wracked with silent sobs, but I am empty, not even salt left to shed. Knox just holds me, his hand rubbing slow circles on my back.
“Maybe if I tried harder,” I whisper between sobs.
“Don’t do that, do not fuckin’ do that. He went out exactly how he wanted and that isn’t on you.” He kisses the side of my face, and I realize his stubble is wet with tears. I don’t know if they’re mine or his. “He chose this. It wasn’t your fault.”
I just sob. I have never been so tired. I think my bones are curling up inside me. He must feel it, because he pulls us both higher, dragging us upright, and starts to lather up shampoo. He washes my hair, fingers massaging my scalp until the pain in my head dulls to a manageable throb. He washes my arms, my back, careful over the bruises starting to bloom there.