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About Nolan.
About all of the survivors.
About my operatives.
It’s about everyone—fucking everyone—but me.
Figuring a little whiskey might help keep the self-deprecation at bay, I pour myself a glass. A full one. I never had dinner, after all.
I settle in the corner by the fridge, letting the counter support my weight a little, and cradle the glass to my chest. The smell alone is calming. It’s like an answer. A plan. I’ll drink this whiskey, maybe find some painkillers to top things off, drag my ass to bed, and sleep.
I will not, under any circumstances, go into my little brother’s room and drag my best friend out of his bed. Nor will I yell at them. Nor will I get on my knees and beg Carter to please, please fucking forgive me, please.
It’s a good plan—until the wood flooring creaks and someone steps into the kitchen.
My chest threatens to cave in on itself.
Carter.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the party, when I watched Travis face-fuck him before opening him up for all the guests to have a turn. I don’t know if I’ll ever be the same after that. It was hard knowing he was getting hurt and raped while living with Travis, but having to sit in a chair I wasn’t actually tied to and just watch because it wasn’t time to make my move was unimaginable. I physically could have stopped them, and I did nothing. Once again, I chose the fucking operation over him. I’ll never forgive myself. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me either.
Already forgave Travis, though.
I shove the anger down as Carter’s eyes move from the fruit bowl he was heading toward to me instead. His body locks up, waves of anxiety rippling off him. I hate that. I’ve never wanted him to look at me like that.
“You can take one,” I say like an idiot. I nod to the bowl of fruit in case it wasn’t clear. “Hell, take all of them.”
He shifts, every inch of his posture defensive and angry. Please stop hating me. I can’t take it anymore, Car. “You know, I wondered what the first thing you’d say to me would be.”
I’m sorry. It was meant to be I’m sorry. But you don’t want to hear it. I don’t know what you want from me. Just tell me. I’ll give it. I’ll give you anything.
“For what it’s worth,” I say quietly. “So have I.”
“Yeah.” His lips twist to the side, his eyebrows pulling together. “Are you okay?”
I huff incredulously. This kid. “Shouldn’t that be my line?”
“I’m not the one with a head wound.”
It feels like the words cut right through me. I hear the echo of Travis’s voice from the night he bought Carter from his kidnappers. “They let him fall on his face with his arms tied behind his back. He hit his head pretty fucking hard. I’m watching him for a concussion, but…” He hadn’t needed to finish the sentence. The there’s not much we can do anyway was clear.
“Today,” I say without thinking, the one word soaked in so much self-hatred I almost choke on it.
“What?”
“You’re not the one with the head wound today.” I can’t look at him, dropping my gaze to my drink instead. I’m such a fucking coward. “You suffered one the night of the auction.”
He makes a soft, pained sound. “Were you there?”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s asking if I was at the auction. My eyes snap up to look at him, something cracking inside me. He honestly believes I would have watched him be sold and not done anything to help him?
Of course he does.
Why wouldn’t he?
“What? No. Of course not.” But… was the way I spent that night any fucking better? I knew his location and did nothing to stop it. Just like the party when I sat in that chair and watched a line of men rape his mouth. When he just stares at me in confusion, I try to explain. “I got reports any time you were harmed.”
I immediately realize that was the wrong thing to say by the way his face twists. “Lovely. So, not only did you know I was getting raped and humiliated all the time and did nothing about it, you were also getting detailed medical reports that you ignored.”
