Page 77

I wasn’t quick enough to save Lydia from what I almost fucking did to her at the warehouse. I wasn’t quick enough to stop Callum from shooting her because he thought she was her captor—because he thought she was me.

Callum will never forgive me, even knowing that it was truly me behind that fucking mask. Even if I tell him that I was under the same compulsion that he was when he shot Lydia. He’ll never fucking forgive the things that I’ve done. And why should he? I’m not entirely sure that I will, either.

The horrible truth is that Lydia isn’t the only one. My mind jumps to Cordelia Virelli and her horrific crime scene. Flashes of her face infiltrate my mind, a nightmare that I’ll never fucking outrun. She was terrified and alone, and I drove her to her own death in those final moments. She’s dead because of me. And now Lydia …

As I run a hand through my hair, I can’t stop my mind from conjuring up the worst possible outcomes for whatever the fuck is happening behind these god-awful vomit green hospital doors. Why do all hospitals paint the walls this terrible fucking color? It’s horrid.

The color reminds me of my childhood room, the one I stayed in alone once Riv and I were old enough to want separate spaces. I suffocate the blinding rage climbing at the memory of everything those lifeless green walls represent. My brother has always assumed that he saved me from our father, that I was the chosen one. That couldn’t be further from the truth.

I was never physically abused by Dorian Reilly, not like Riven. My father had other ways of torturing his youngest son. Riven doesn’t need to know about all the emotional abuse I endured while inside that bedroom. He doesn’t need to know how I’d listen across the wall while he fought for his life against our father. I’d beg, plead, and cry for my brother for hours.

I carved marks into my own skin so that my brother wouldn’t be alone in his abuse. At the time, it made sense in the only way anything ever did. If Riven’s pain was inevitable, then at least it could be shared. At least my brother wouldn’t be the only one suffering. But none of those things helped him. I never truly helped him. I never tried to stop Dorian from hurting Riven.

Riven doesn’t need to know that Dorian would lock me in my room for days without food or water, or scream until I stopped believing I was anything but weak for wanting to save my brother. My father made me believe that tears were weakness, so I learned to choke them down until they stopped entirely. For years, I was conditioned to believe that praise was only earned when I was compliant—that Dorian’s affection was a prize to be won. And though I’m not proud of the fact, it worked.

I’ve never told a single soul what happened to me in that vomit green bedroom, and I plan to keep it that way. Riven and I got good at pretending normal existed in the rooms where it never did. We swallowed it all down, over and over, until eventually it stopped.

Too bad the damage was already done.

Naturally, I turned to social media and club life as a way to escape my demons. At first, it was just noise—lights, faces, music, really anything to drown out the things that waited in the silence. It eventually morphed into a sick obsession where I craved the attention. The praise came easily and without conditions. And though playing with Reverb somewhat brought me back to who I truly was, even that wasn’t enough to suffocate the darkness.

Sometimes I think it’d be easier to use the trauma of my childhood as a crutch throughout life, that it would be easier to blame all of my fuck ups on my past. After everything that I’ve done, I just might. After all, a traumatic upbringing doesn’t make you a good person.

Am I a good person?

I sigh, walking toward the automatic doors of the emergency department and out into the warm evening air. I’m not even sure where I’m going as I head down the ramp and toward the street. All I know is that this is not the place I need to be right now. Callum doesn’t need me right now; he needs my brother. Riven Reilly is the better fucking brother. He’s the brother who doesn’t cower and cry while the other one is beaten to shit. He’s the brother who doesn’t lock other people’s girlfriends in cages or try to sacrifice them to some fucking imaginary sound. Riven is the brother that I’ll never be, the brother who will never know what he truly means to me.

It’s better that way.

“Shit!” a female voice snaps as I crash into her, yanking me from my inner spiral. “Watch where the fuck you’re going, pretty boy.”

I scoff, preparing a well-thought-out insult to sling her way as I drag my gaze to hers. Except when I find myself caught in her dark, velvet gaze, the words die in my throat. I’m struck silent, staring down at the most striking woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.

She’s above average height for a female, though still a few inches shorter than I am, standing with one hand on her hip and her chin lifted high in defiance. There’s nothing soft about her stance—it’s sharp and controlled, almost lethal. She’s a feisty one, I can tell. My gaze drags over her long, jet-black, wavy hair spilling over her shoulders and down to the perfect curve of her hips. My eyes linger on her frame for entirely too long, caught in her predatory orbit.

“Wow, stare a little fucking harder, will you?” she snaps, sidestepping to go around me. Turning briefly, I watch as the dark-haired vixen mumbles something unintelligible beneath her breath and disappears into the waiting room.

In another life, I would have gotten her number. In another life, I would have charmed her into my bed. But in this fucked-up reality, I don’t deserve the girl. I don’t deserve anything good after what I’ve done.

I wander with no clear direction, eyes fixed on the asphalt beneath my feet, when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey, man.”

Turning toward the sound, I come face-to-face with Samuel Pierce. Samuel is a friend, one with … benefits. Or he used to be. Lately, I’ve been so fucking lost inside my head that I haven’t kept in touch with anyone.

“Hey, Sam,” I say, hating myself for this next part. “I gotta run, but I’ll catch up with you soon, man.”

It’s a lie, one I sell like I’ve told it a thousand times.

“Yeah, man. I gotta run, too. My girl’s inside. Family emergency,” he says, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“Your … girl?” I ask, my gaze dropping to his hand before he lowers it. I wasn’t aware he was seeing someone. It’s not like we were exclusive or anything serious—we were always better off as friends. But it makes me wonder what else I’ve missed while under the frequency compulsion.

“Yeah,” he says, averting his gaze. “It’s new. I was gonna tell you, I just—”

“No worries, Sam. I’m glad you’re happy,” I say honestly. “I’ll see you later.”

He nods, turning on his heels and heading for the emergency room entrance. I stare after him for only a second longer before turning and taking off down the street in the direction of a bus stop as a plan unfolds in my head.

Cal has Lydia, if fate will allow. Riven has Sloane. Kai has his therapist. Samuel has a girlfriend. And me? No one will have to deal with me and my fucked-up existence again, because I’m going to disappear.