Cash blows out a loud inhale of breath, flopping backward onto his chair and shaking his head. “I swear to fuck, you’re all crazy.”
“And you’re not?” I quirk a brow.
Cash winks. “Not that crazy. I’m sure you’re right…” We all relax a little when Bishop tucks away his gat. Trigger-happy Bishop. He’s just like the old Bishop, only more wounded.
“That still leaves one thing,” Bishop says from the head of the table. “She needs to know about me and Tillie. About Hector, Brantley. It’s safer for her to know, and on top of that, we have outside threats that will most likely be after her if it has gotten out that after all this time, Hector had himself a little” —deep breath and then slowly through gritted teeth—“Swan.”
Brantley
Fourteen years old
Dea was what I called her when she walked into our house for the first time. She was a child. Toddler. But different. Her voice had a tone that I had never heard. I sometimes wondered if it was because of her first years being spent in some fucked orphanage.
“Brantley? Are you home?” There was a knock on my door, but my mouth slammed closed, my fingers flexing in my palm. I didn’t hate her, but I should.
Fuck, I should hate her. She’s a Swan.
The door opened, spilling the hallway light into my room.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to. My body was aching, blood spilling from my nose, leaving the toxic taste of metal sticking to the back of my throat.
What the fuck did she want?
If I don’t answer, she’ll obviously go away.
But she didn’t. She took the few steps into my bedroom and kicked the door closed behind herself, cutting off what light was coming through.
I held my breath. Did she know I was in here? Probably not. What the fuck is she doing.
The mattress sank beside me. “Can I sleep in here?”
Okay, so I was wrong.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Every time I moved my mouth, pain shot through my gums. Motherfucker almost knocked my fucking teeth out, now I’ll send his in a cute little package for his mother to wear around her neck. Here’s your pearl necklace, bitch. Signed, TEKC. Everything stung. Pain. And still, that was nothing compared to what I had lived through tonight, but the pain reminded me that I survived.
She obviously laid down beside me because I could feel her body weight sink into the mattress, her hair splaying out over my arm.
“Why does it smell in here?” she asked softly, and I held my breath again.
I wanted to say, why the fuck are you in my bed? No one comes in my room, let alone on my goddamn bed, but I didn’t. I remained silent because I was afraid if I said anything, she’d see straight through the words I used and snatch the ones I was trying to hide.
I flexed my fingers, but electricity shot up my arm, spreading out through my veins. It was worth it.
The thing about Saint is, she talks. A fucking lot. You would expect her to be quiet, because she looks demure and carries herself with a rare kind of grace that is usually only captured by something fucking celestial like a seraph. She’s not. She’s bold enough to be inquisitive about every-fucking-thing in this world, and I think I’m partly to blame for that. I have always hovered over her like a monster, ready to tear anyone apart that comes near.
“Brantley?” she whispered. Her voice had a direct fucking line to every switch inside my body.
I hated it.
“Are you bleeding again?”
Saint
Present
It was too dark for it to be morning. I knew as much when I opened my eyes. My lace curtains swayed with the wind that was drifting through my room, cold yet oddly serene. White fabric moved with the lace. I rub my eyes and open them again, but just as my lashes lift from my cheek, a dark shadow zips past me, ducking behind the curtain. I jump off the bed in shock, fear crawling through me, its sharp nails moving down my spine.
“Who’s there?”
I rub my eyes again, suddenly more awake than I was a second ago. Opening them again, I reach for the curtain to push it out of the way. “Who—” It’s empty. My antique three-piece outdoor setting sits in the corner, with my mini Monstera plant in the center of the table.
“I’m going crazy.” I patter toward the bathroom where my white marble tub is mounted in the center beside my freestanding rainforest shower. I love my bathroom. Windows overlook the front of the house, but all of my different species of ferns hang from various places. Brantley calls my bedroom and bathroom “a fucking jungle,” but I think it’s just perfect.
Turning on the faucet near the sink, I splash water on my face, dabbing the moisture off my cheeks with Egyptian cotton. The room is quiet. Secluded. But I’m used to it. I’m more comfortable in silence than I am around noise.
Moving my way through my bedroom, around my plants, I change for the day, switching into something comfortable enough to garden in. Since I was a child, gardening has been my outlet. It was a hobby, but now it’s more like a lifestyle. To be able to grow and nurture something that is alive gives me a sense of purpose.
I’m jogging down the stairwell, raking my hair up into a high pony when I pause in my steps. Brantley is leaning against the wall opposite me, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders straight. I’ve never known him outside of these walls, never seen him interact with his peers or in social settings. Brantley has always come off as closed, cold, and completely unapproachable, but seeing how he moved around his friends last night, I’m guessing there’s a whole lot to him that not even I know.
Sometimes it’s not about the words people whisper into your ear in the dark; most times it’s about what they say in front of an audience.
I’m beginning to feel as though the Brantley I know is a mere outline of the whole artistic picture that is Brantley Vitiosis. I want to study it as a whole, learn the curves and the brush strokes, but I can’t do that until he bares it all to me.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, playing with the leather bangle that’s around my wrist.
“What did Tillie talk to you about last night?” He pushes off the wall and makes his way into the kitchen. I follow behind him slowly, watching as the muscles in his back flex while he gathers the ingredients he needs for a protein shake.
“She asked about some details of me being here,” I say softly, pulling out a barstool while remaining focused on him.
“And what did you say?” he asks, scooping out powder and tipping it into the blender cup.
“The basics,” I answer, watching him closely. He flips the blender on, and for a few seconds, we’re drowned out with noise. He switches it off, tears off the lid and tosses it into the sink, before turning to face me and leaning on the counter.
“Which is?”
Alarmed by the vocal confidence that he’s spewing, my mouth slightly closes. You would assume that because we live together and have always lived together, that we would see each other often. We don’t. Brantley is never home. At least since Lucan died anyway. Up until that point, I would have been confident enough to say that he and I existed around each other. It may have not been a conventional friendship, but I knew he tolerated me. Since Lucan died, however, Brantley’s anger has only peaked, and I hardly see him now. I see him around the house maybe once every three months—if that—and when I do, it’s in passing. It’s not because we live in separate wings in this gigantic mansion, either, because we’ve always stayed on the same wing. The same hallway. There were two bedrooms on the third level of this house. One door led to his room, while the other to mine.