“Fuck, I didn’t know. I swear to you, I didn’t. Aria had me meeting with some executives for a company she’s interested in. She probably just wanted me out of the way. Fuck!”
As Beckett and Fischer talk, Zane turns toward me, his expression uncharacteristically serious. He whispers one word, “Go.”
And I go.
Down the hall, through the door, and into the bedroom-slash-prison we’ve been forced to stay in.
Dominic is sitting on the bed, his head in his hands, a fine tremor radiating through his body. He doesn’t look up when I approach, but I know he’s aware of my presence. His muscles stiffen, though he doesn’t lift his head.
I sit beside Dominic on the edge of the bed, close enough that our shoulders touch. He doesn’t say anything. He just…sits there, his hands grasping at his unruly blond hair, his eyes boring holes into the floor like the answers to everything might be hiding in the carpet fibers. I can feel the tension rolling off him in waves.
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel,” he finally mutters, voice low and scraped raw.
I shift toward him and slide my hand over his. He doesn’t pull away—thank fuck—but his fingers don’t curl around mine either. They stay there, tired and heavy.
“I don’t think there are any ‘right’ feelings in this situation,” I reply softly. A part of me can almost relate to him, though in a belated, distant way. After all, I’ve been grieving my parents for years, only to recently discover they weren’t the people I thought they were. They were amazing parents, but they did horrible things for the Paragons of Prosperity. Sometimes, I’ll stay up at night, my mind churning with unanswered questions, wondering what unspeakable crimes my parents committed for the cult.
Did they murder?
Rape?
Or were they oblivious sheep with no idea what they got themselves into?
“It’s hard to justify grieving monsters,” I begin, choosing my words carefully, “but grief doesn’t ask for justification. You can know who they were—every cruelty, every wound they carvedinto you or another—and still feel the ache when they’re gone. It isn’t forgiveness and it isn’t love; it’s the mourning of what should have been, the version of them you needed and never got. Grieving them doesn’t make them better, and it doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”
Dominic lets out a humorless laugh, more breath than sound. “I hated them, Ellie. Both of them. My whole life, I hated them. And now they’re dead, murdered in front of me, and I’m supposed to…what? Grieve? Forgive them? Pretend there was something good there?” His voice cracks at the end, a fracture he tries to physically swallow down.
I squeeze his hand gently. “You don’t have to pretend anything. And you don’t have to forgive them.”
I suspect, out of the two of them, he’s most conflicted about his brother. Doyle was awful to Dominic growing up, and he obviously participated in POP’s deranged activities—how else had he found my listing on the app? He helped us a few times, but does that negate all the awful things he did? Was he looking for redemption or a way to reconcile his relationship with Dominic?
I suppose neither of us has the answers to those questions. The only one who did is…dead.
“I fucking hate them, even now. They’re dead, and this…bitterness remains. This anger. It’s caustic and ugly, but I can’t get rid of it. What kind of person does that make me?”
I move closer until our knees touch, until I can guide his head gently to my shoulder. He hesitates for a heartbeat, then allows himself to lean against me, his soft hair tickling my cheek.
“A human one,” I answer. “A hurt one. Someone who spent years protecting himself the only way he knew how. You weren’t wrong to keep your distance from someone who’d hurt you.”
Dominic’s breath shudders against my collarbone. “I miss my moms,” he whispers, and I feel his tears wetting my skin.
My heart fissures, cracks, deteriorates like tissue paper dipped in water.
All of my guys have…interesting relationships with their parents, but Dominic’s mothers are absolutely wonderful. Before we came to live with Aria, he was keeping up with them semi-regularly. They know all about our unconventional relationship and support us one hundred percent. Currently, they believe the four of us—minus Landon and Ryker, who are “dead” in their eyes—are touring the UK and meeting Beckett’s family.
“I miss them too, but we’ll see them again.” I tighten my grip around him. “And you can be sad your father and brother are gone. And relieved. And guilty. And angry. You can feel all of it at once. None of it cancels anything else out.”
He nods, his face still pressed against the hollow of my throat, his hands clutched at the front of my dress, as if he’s afraid I’ll leave him.
Silly boy.
Doesn’t he realize I’m not going anywhere?
I don’t know how long we hold each other, but I want him to know he doesn’t have to be strong all the time. Not with me. I’ll hold his broken pieces together until he finds the strength to stitch himself back together.
“You don’t have to be strong right now,” I whisper. “Not with me. You can feel whatever you need to feel.”
His body trembles, a fine, almost imperceptible shudder. “I feel… nothing,” he says, his voice hollow. “And everything. It’s a fucking mess, Ellie. They were horrible people. They made my life hell. But they were…they were my family. And now they’re just gone. And I’m free. I feel like I should be lighter, but I feel empty.”
