Epilogue
HOLLISTER
I am so fucking gutted I can barely breathe. My heart is cracked open in slow motion until it might burst. For her. For Dom. For all of us caught in the debris field that my pursuit of her caused. Guilt deepens the pain I feel everywhere.
None of this would have occurred if I hadn’t followed her that night at the gala. But how could I not? Any decent human being would have gone after her to make sure she’s all right. Would have returned her text message. It would be rude otherwise. Those are the justifications I told myself.
Now we are here.
She clings to me as if her life depends on it.
Certainly her happiness. She was a poised and polished shell of herself before.
I breathed life, fun, and freedom into it.
She told me that several times. Yet, why do I feel like Dom sucked the life out of both of us?
Doing what he does best. Stomping in, ruining everyone’s fun and happiness, and leaving a damn debris field of carnage in his wake.
She’s shaking.
Sobbing into my chest. Each ragged breath cuts through me like a serrated blade. The sound of utter brokenness imprints on my psyche. She clutches me, truly needing someone to hold onto. Teether her in the wake of that horrible storm.
My arms are wrapped tightly around her, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Not nearly enough to contain this much grief, sorrow, and heartbreak. She’s unraveling in my arms. I’m fucking falling apart right with her.
I press my chin to the top of her head, my tears slipping down without warning. I don’t even try to stop them. Not this time. Not after what I just witnessed.
When we sat on the docks after attempting to work out our shit, he asked me to come.
I said yes, whatever he needed in that raw, heated moment.
Needed, being the keyword. Dom didn’t need me here to mediate.
He didn’t need backup in case things got heated or went off the rails.
He didn’t need a buffer between him and his mother.
He needed a witness.
To the wreckage.
To the blood-soaked history between them.
To the childhood he never got. I still don’t know if he wanted me there for him.
Or her. Or was this his way of showing me everything before letting me make the final call on whether I could live with what she had done to him?
Who she was and why. Maybe all of it. Maybe he just didn’t want to be alone for round two.
With Dom, you never know his true motives.
They are far too complex and layered to understand.
But this, today, gets me a front row seat to the mess inside his head.
To the darkness he brings to any situation.
I thought it was more about him being smart as fucking hell.
Now I know that’s layered too. Complex doesn’t even cover what Dom wanted me to know by bringing me with him today.
I showed up. I listened. I stood in the crossfire and took every hit alongside them.
The swell of haunted and hurtful memories spills past the odd robotic emotional back and forth.
The dam of crap Dom had been holding back burst, flooding her and the entire room with years, if not decades, worth of rapid, flowing destruction.
I’m still shocked.
Still reeling from the sound of Dom’s voice cracking when he said I needed a mother, not a fucking science project.
Still hearing the soft break of my heart when he said I felt defective, like something she had to fix.
And I swear, something shifted in me. Broke loose in the places I’ve been too scared to look.
Because for all his genius and rage and downright meanness at times, he just wanted to be loved, held, and seen.
Like every single one of us. That’s the barest fucking minimum of what everyone deserves.
I bury my face into her hair and exhale.
Her perfume lingers, even though it’s the salt of our tears.
It’s familiar now. A scent that’s tangled up in every memory I want to keep.
Every decision we still have to make. He gave us his blessing, or maybe not his curse.
I’ll leave it at that, but nothing is simple after this.
Not him. Not our friendship. Not her. Not whatever this is.
The only thing I know right now is here, rooted to her floor, holding her in my arms, I’m not leaving her.
Not like this. Not when she’s fallen apart in my arms. I know, know, how rare it is for someone like her to let me see her at her lowest. Rock fucking bottom at the rockiest bottom a person can fall to.
See the rawest damn truth there is. If this is what her hell looks like, I’m not running away.
I don’t care what my last name is or what law school I’m expected to attend or how many judges my father golfs with.
I don’t care that the safe, expected thing is to walk away.
It doesn’t matter when it comes to her. My life is safe, secure, and carefully planned out for me.
A foregone conclusion when passing the gallery of oil canvas of all the Harrington and Morgan men who went before me.
With her, nothing is safe. Nothing about Babs is simple. Nothing is secured or expected. Nothing planned out. It’s taboo, spontaneous, and reckless.
My jaw clenches. Tears still rise, but they don’t fall anymore.
I don’t speak, barely breathe, and just stay.
Stay with her the way no one ever has when she shattered.
Not her husband at the time, not her friends at the club, or all the other wives.
Not when she was pushing her kids away as a cry of help, drowning in herself, and unable to save anyone.
I hold her. Hold her as if I understand when I entirely don’t.
I didn’t break this.
Didn’t break her.
Yet, I’m sticking around to fix her and, to a lesser extent, fix him too.
My brother. Her sobs subside to a few sparse sniffles until she’s pulling away.
I brush the hair back from her damp face.
Collect the tears from her cheeks with my knuckles.
Trap her in the circle of my arms and press a long kiss into her forehead.
I don’t know what we are. What we will be, but I won’t walk away and leave her drowning. Not again.
“Do you want to lie down?”
It’s probably an odd thing to ask, but honestly, she looks as if she’s about to fall down.
Still clutching my arms for strength. Dark bloodshot eyes slide to mine.
Swollen eyelids, red and puffy surrounding them.
Even upset, she’s beautiful. Broken, hurting, and completely open to me. She’s perfect.
“I . . . I haven’t slept much.”
It sounds like an apology.
Or an explanation for the silence these past few days. I understand and I don’t. I want to dive into us, all my pleading and upset messages and texts. But damn, after treading water in the deep seas of Dom’s carnage, that can wait for another time, and honestly, I’m beat to hell too.
She slips away, looking at a full tea cup, long since cold. A plate of cookies and a book are on the table next to her chair.
“We could just sit and . . .”
Her gaze returns to mine, appearing more lost and unsure of what to do next. I catch a glimpse of that woman who must have hidden behind the door of her bedroom all those years ago. Lost in the gloomy darkness, not knowing which way the murky water’s surface is.
“I think you need the privacy of your bedroom. The comfort of your bed.”
If her staff is as well instructed as mine, they will know not to be seen. Having heard enough to know what transpired. Moving about their daily tasks as invisible ghosts.
“Where is your bedroom?”
I take her hand, and she lets me. There’s no grip to it. No strength in her fingers. Just a quiet surrender as I guide her down the hall.
The silk of her blouse is damp against her spine. Her steps are slow. Staggered. As if she’s forgotten how to walk without performing or posing for others, for art lovers and patrons, gala supporters and fundraising titans.
“Back of the house.”
I don’t rush her.
There’s a gravity to this house now. A silence that isn’t peaceful, just empty. Like the air was sucked out with Dominic when he walked out the front door, and we’ve been breathing on borrowed time ever since.
Each step echoes against the polished wood floor. Past carefully curated art and untouched floral arrangements meant to impress no one in particular. I see it now. How lonely all of this looks. The clean lines. The perfect symmetry. The sterile beauty of her wealth.
A place built to protect the exterior of a woman who hasn’t felt safe in years. Her fingers twitch in mine, as if she wants to pull away but doesn’t. Not really. She’s just never been led before. Not without strings. Not without expectations.
Just as I expected, there is no one in sight. Tucked away in rooms and around corners, she will not see. Perfect. The only sound is the ticking of a clock somewhere. Our footsteps echo back to us.
We reach her bedroom. She stops at the threshold like she’s standing at the edge of a cliff.
As if walking into this room means facing everything she’s locked behind its walls.
I open the door for her anyway. The lights are low and the room smells faintly of roses.
This isn’t the house that broke her. This is the house that saved her. Became her sanctuary.
It’s evident in the soft touches and light, cashmere-colored interior. Yet, everything is perfect. Military precision, as can only be expected from her. My grip on her hand tightens. Giving her an assured nod when she doesn’t move.
She follows, slightly behind, until I stop at her bed. Toss the million throw decorative pillows onto a couch at the foot of the bed. Some spill to the floor, eliciting a slight gasp. It’s perfect and messy.
“We’ll deal with that later.”