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Rafael said the four of them claimed two rooms. I stuck my head in them, feeling zero ounces of guilt about invading their privacy after two particular doors came off the wall. I wandered inside them all, barring two rooms that were bolted with half a dozen locks each. I didn’t ask whose room that was.
Lucien was the owner of the dojo and death den. For Cato, I swung the door in, heard him growl on the other side and closed it shut quickly. Padding across the hall, I walked into a reader’s paradise, or their nightmare.
Books on books stacked as high as the ceiling with no discernible system, and no bookshelves to create one. A mound of hardbacks in the corner. Paperbacks lining a path to a squishy armchair in the middle of the room. Hundreds of books of all genres, sizes, authors, and centuries covered the carpet.
Cato.
I couldn’t say why I knew this space was his. I just knew.
My tour took me to the room next door. Rafael’s.
Band posters covered almost every inch of wall. He built a workbench connecting his nightstand to his desk, stretching the length of the back wall and sticking his messy queen-size bed next to the door. I tiptoed inside, checking out the bands, and raising a brow at all the weird stuff on his desk/bench.
Rafael was in the kitchen, standing over a bubbling pot of something that smelled delicious. It was almost dinnertime. His headphones were in, but the lovely sound spreading through the room was coming from him.
“Surrender to me,” he sang, catching my breath.
Beautiful. His voice was just... beautiful.
I squeezed his shoulder, ending his song and hating myself for it.
“Luna.” Rafael tapped his phone, shutting off the music. I waited as he switched out the headphones for his hearing aids. During the one day we lived together, I noticed he alternated between the aids, headphones, and earplugs. The world’s noise did not touch him freely.
“You hungry?” he asked, shutting off the stove. “I made chicken chili soup.”
“Oooh. Sounds yum. I’ll get the bowls.”
Checking the cabinets, I found what I was looking for over the sink. Rafael’s fingers brushed mine as he took them from me.
“Enjoy your snoop?” he asked.
“Yep. Is the library Cato’s?”
He smiled at me, making my cheeks heat for no good reason again. “You’re cute calling it a library.”
The “cute” compliment didn’t go down easy either.
“Yeah, it’s Cato’s. My bro likes to read.”
“There are multitudes hidden in his head, aren’t there?”
“Personalities? Nah, that’s not his diagnosis.”
I poked him. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
Rafael chuckled. “Yes, there are. People don’t see past the muzzle, and the growling, and the biting, and the pyromania, and... I had a point when I started that sentence.”
A giggle escaped me—over as quickly as it started, and a miracle all the same. Just an hour before, I was convinced I wouldn’t laugh again for a lifetime.
“Cato is more than people think he is,” Rafael finished. “I won’t let anyone stigmatize and put my brother in a box, because they can’t bother looking past the face he shows the world. We all wear a mask, and we all get a chance to show what’s behind it. Cato should get that chance too.”
I lay my hand on his forearm, looking at him, but seeing her. Winter said she wasn’t a bear, but it wasn’t me who broke Billy Canton’s nose for pushing me off my bike and making me skin my knee. I was busy crying on the sidewalk while she chased him around the yard—four feet tall, pink bows in her hair, and beating the crap out of him.
My vision swam. That was something I would truly never stop doing. “Big siblings. You never stop taking care of us.”
“Didn’t know it was an option.” Rafael caught a tear chasing the other down my cheek. “But you’re right, I wouldn’t take it if it was.”
Rafael carried our bowls to the table. Wiping my face, I hopped on the stool, facing him.
“I popped into your room too,” I said, changing the subject back. “I’m in love with almost every band on your walls.”
“Then you have excellent taste, Luna Sinclair. Just when I think I couldn’t like you more.”
I arched a brow. “Do you flirt with every girl like this?”
“Only the beautiful, smart, badass ones.”
“You are on a roll.”
He laughed. “I can stop, if you want. This is your place now. Wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable here.”
I flicked down, suddenly interested in my soup. “You’re not... making me uncomfortable.”
“Good to know.”
Oh yeah, that was definitely the wrong thing to say.
“But all that stuff on your bench,” I said, steering the conversation again. “The wires, and tubes, and fake packages with explosive warnings. What’s that about?”
Rafael didn’t pause dipping his spoon in his soup. “Those aren’t fake, Cloud Girl. They’re bombs. Very real bombs.”
