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It’s cathartic.
I calm just holding her close. My beautiful, stoic wife needing me. Me.
My mother was right.
I am a sucker for a damsel in distress, or maybe—it’s just Alessia.
Eventually, she quiets, and I reach over to the bedside and grab a tissue. “Here. Better?” I ask.
She nods and wipes her nose and eyes, which are all smudged kohl and running mascara and even like this… she’s gorgeous.
More so.
“Good. Me too.” I kiss her forehead. “Let me get you out of this dress, and we can go to bed.” Lifting her off my lap and onto the floor, I stand behind her, brush her hair over her shoulder, and unfasten her dress at the neck. Leaning down, I press my lips to her nape, inhaling her scent, and then turn to undress myself.
She wanders into the bathroom while I strip and clamber into bed. When she emerges a few minutes later, she’s fresh-faced and wearing one of my T-shirts. She switches on the little dragon nightlight while I flip back the quilt, and she climbs in beside me and snuggles up, her head on my chest, her arm across my body.
“I love you,” she whispers, and her words unfurl inside my heart, filling the void left by my treacherous mother.
“I know. I love you too.”
I kiss the top of her head, close my eyes, and fall into an exhausted sleep.
My footsteps echo an urgent beat on the hard reflective floor, and I squint beneath the unremitting light of the fluorescents.
I’ve been here before.
“This way.” The A&E consultant stops and opens the door to a cool, stark room that is the hospital mortuary.
I don’t want to go in. I don’t want to see.
The A&E consultant stares. Scarlet lips pursed.
Rowena?
“In you go,” she says in a clipped tone that’s not to be contradicted.
Inside, on a table, beneath a sheet, is my brother.
Kit.
No! That’s not him.
It’s me—lying bruised and broken… cold… dead.
What?
From my prone position on the table, I watch Kit lean over and kiss my forehead. “Goodbye, you fucker,” he rasps, the strain of unshed tears heavy in his throat. “You’ve got this. This is what you were born to do.” He smiles, his crooked, sincere smile that’s reserved for those rare moments when he’s fucked up.
Kit! No! You’ve got this wrong.
Wait!
“You’ve got this, Spare,” he says again, then disappears. And I’m looking down at him once more, leaning over him while he sleeps. Except his battered body belies that… he’s not asleep—he’s dead.
No! Kit! No! The words stay stuck in my throat. I can’t speak. This is all wrong.
And I’m outside the room watching my mother walk stiffly away, her heels beating a terse tattoo on the tiled floor as she moves farther and farther away.
Rowena! Mother! Mama!
I wake drenched in sweat, my heart thumping a furious rhythm, my blood pumping frantically through my veins, and I’m sure I’m shaking the bed. I take a deep, cleansing breath and my heartbeat gradually slows.
It’s quiet and dark. Even the shimmers on the ceiling are absent.
Alessia mumbles something unintelligible but settles back to sleep.
Thank God she’s here.
I turn over to face her, resting my head on my arm and watching her slumber, her features delicate and lovely in the soft glow of the little dragon.
It’s just a dream.
No. A nightmare. A prophetic nightmare.
I rub my face and lie on my back, trying to drive out the images of Kit and me on the cold slab.
Was my mother’s revelation such a shock to me? Did I know? Maryanne and I share similar coloring—a straightforward blend of our parents. Kit did not. He was blond and blue-eyed, driven and imperious. He was harder, more arrogant, and meaner, maybe, than both Maryanne and me. It’s been a revelation that he made Caro attend etiquette classes. He was always a bit of a snob, and I wonder if he knew deep down.
Hell. This changes nothing. No one need ever know.
I should contact Maryanne and find out how she’s doing.
We can keep this within the family—provided my mother hasn’t blurted all to Heath.
When I turn back to Alessia, she’s watching me, her dark eyes gleaming in the soft light from the little dragon.
“Did I wake you?”
“No,” she whispers, placing her palm on my cheek and steadying me in the storm. I close my eyes, cherishing her touch and grateful that it distracts me from my fevered thoughts. “Are you okay?” she asks. “Is there anything I can do?”
With my eyes intent on hers, I try to articulate how I feel, but I’m lost in my own turmoil.
Alessia nods as if she understands and brushes her lips against mine. “You will figure this out. And until then, I’ve got you. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you early…um…earlier.” She snuggles closer, resting her head on my chest, and I wrap an arm around her, holding on tight.
