Page 21 of Never the Same

Gideon dragged a palm down his face, shaking his head. He hissed a low, deep breath.

“We haven’t been able to reach him,” Julian revealed in a raspy voice, no humor to hide his worry this time. “But it’s normal for him to be off-grid.”

“You’re sure he’s not in danger?” I asked Gideon instead, since something told me he was calling the shots. “Was Tristan with me in Rome?”

Gideon quickly dismissed my concerns with a blanket statement. “We don’t know anything right now.” He began addressing his sleeves as if that were a more pressing matter, rolling the left one down. “You should rest. The doctors said not to overwhelm you. Let’s let the drugs wear off, and we’ll chat tomorrow, okay?”

“Wear off so you can tell me we have a brother out there that could be in trouble, and my memories might be the key to unlocking where to find him and how to save him?” I held my chest, finding a spot there sensitive to touch, as I searched for a deep breath I couldn’t seem to achieve.

When neither brother made eye contact, I redirected to Reed, hoping he’d calm me again as he had before.

Reed grimaced, and his throat muscles went visibly taut. Not the best indicator everything was A okay with my half brother.

“Tell me what you know,” I requested.

“Don’t,” Gideon ordered, and I assumed that command was for Reed.

“No, please do.” Not that I had any freaking clue what information was being held back from me.

A troubled look passed over Reed’s face.

It was wild. I didn’t even know who this man was to me or why he was there, just that he’d been part of my rescue and my brothers were allowing him in the room with me.

“Your half brother could be in danger, yes,” Reed answered despite Gideon’s death stare, then closed his eyes. “Or, uh . . . Tristan could be the one who did this to you.”

Chapter Seven

Hollis

I’d spent the last two hours tossing and turning, flipping through blank page after blank page in my mind, only landing on movie plotlines and random facts in a slew of languages. Gideon had shut down the conversation about our half brother and kicked everyone, including himself, out of the room so I could sleep. Rest was as elusive as my memories, so I tossed the covers off and swung my legs around to the side of the bed.

Once my feet made contact with the honey-hued hardwood, I looked up at the camera and stated the obvious: “I can’t sleep.” I drew my hand beneath my chin, a command to kill the feed. My patience wasn’t tested, because the light turned off a few seconds later.

Satisfied to be alone-ish now, I stood with relative ease, grateful the effects of the drugs seemed to have worn off, which meant I should be able to walk unaided. Or run, if the tattoo of the same family crest Julian and Gideon had wasn’t there.

I walked across the ballroom-sized bedroom (only a mild exaggeration) to the full-length mirror wedged between two floor-to-ceiling windows.

The stranger I’d expected to find was staring back at me. Even when I lifted my hand, it was as if someone else was waving, not me. I curled my fingers around the wood frame to get up close and personal with myself.

My pupils were slightly dilated, fighting for space with my forest-green irises. The whites of my eyes were a little red, and my under eyes had a purplish tint competing with my otherwise tan face. Drugged, tired, and hungry were the probable causes.

I lifted my free hand to the curve of my cheek, then skimmed the line of my brow’s scar as if touching it might draw me back to the moment it happened.

Nothing came. Not a damn thing. I let go of the mirror and shifted my thick mass of dark hair out of my way, unsure who’d changed me. These clothes smelled and looked too clean for my coffin escape.

Also, talk about a reason to hyperventilate—waking up in a box. Yet my first instinct had been to fight. To get the top open and climb out of the six-foot hole I’d found myself in. My saving grace had been that the coffin hadn’t been sealed with a lock or by dirt.

Someone clearly had gone to a lot of trouble to take me, only to hand me right back over, and it made no freaking sense.

I smoothed my hands up and down my forearms at the goose bumps gathering as a result of my thoughts.

Arms to my sides, I abandoned my mission to eradicate the little bumps, remembering I was here to check for the tattoo.

I had on a white fitted tee that clung to my curves. Avery was printed in black script on the front pocket—and wasn’t that one of my many names? I peeked down my top, where my breasts were fighting against a too-small sports bra.

Thankfully, my black leggings were more comfortable and not riding up my crotch. I had long, toned legs. My feet were bare, toenails painted a nude color, which was a little boring for a woman who climbed out of coffins and ran down dark alleys like it was just another Thursday.

I checked my fingernails. Same color, but chipped. No sign of dirt under them after yesterday’s struggle, either. Someone both cleaned me and changed my clothes. Hopefully a female nurse and not one of those male doctors from this morning.