18. Sixteen #3
“I’ll be back soon. If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen,” I speak lowly, hoping for a flicker of understanding. As I suspected, more silence ensues, and I exhale heavily. What if she stays this way? Can that happen?
Without giving myself time to reconsider, I bend and press my mouth to the hair along her forehead.
Not quite a kiss, but an embrace to let her know I’m there.
Half of me does it selfishly, a reminder that she’s alive.
The other half is hoping my affections comfort her in the same way my brother’s does.
Envy isn’t something I’m familiar with, but I’ve never had something like those two share. Someone who loves you as you are. Because they want to.
I can’t imagine how that must feel.
I find Creed at the kitchen island. A plate of spaghetti sits untouched in front of him, and his cheeks are tearstained. The moment I sit down across from him, more tears well in his eyes.
I raise my hands to tell him that she’s resting, but he beats me to it.
“It’s my fault,” he confesses, a ragged sob escaping through clenched teeth as he attempts to stifle it. My lips tug down.
“Do you know what happened?” I question, confused. Surely if he knew what was happening, he wouldn’t have been inside cooking pasta.
“No,” he signs emphatically. “That’s the problem! I left her out there because I was angry!”
Creed is crying in earnest, burying his face in his hands. Pushing myself up from the table, I walk around until I reach his side. I pry his hands from his face, dipping my head to meet his gaze. He blinks through the tears and stares up at me, eyes shimmering behind moisture.
It isn’t his fault, not really, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t furious that he would leave her out there alone.
“She’s going to be fine, but I need you to tell me what happened. Every detail.”
Taking a moment to regain some composure, Creed wipes his face hastily with his shirtsleeves before relaying the story.
My jaw ticks as he explains to me what happened with the fish, and the way it upset Eden so greatly that she compared him to her father.
An undeniable low blow that has even me cringing.
Creed’s at the point in the story where he began to start dinner, and I wave my hand flippantly to cut him off.
“Did you see anyone?”
“No, I never would have left her if I knew—if I thought—” A whimper catches in his throat and he digs the palms of his hands into his eyes. Grasping his shoulder, I give it a few squeezes in my attempt to offer comfort. I’m still pissed, but I haven’t seen him this upset in years.
“What happened to her?” he asks. Trepidation is clear on his face, and I know part of him doesn’t want to know the answer.
“One of the Brothers,” I say simply. He’s familiar enough with their doings, he’ll be able to fill in the blanks of why they would be after us.
His lips part, and his eyes grow round with worry.
“You said we were safe here,” he accuses, the sorrow evolving into rage. Good. That’s more manageable for me.
“We are,” I shoot back. “Someone must have stumbled across this place.”
Creed stands, and I take a step back to put some distance between us.
“Did they get away?”
Lies fill my head, and I have to bite the tip of my tongue to keep my face from giving anything away. For his whole life, I’ve fed my brother half truths and kept him hidden from the reality of what goes on around us. What goes on with me.
“They’re dead,” I offer, my molars grinding the inside of my cheeks.
If my brother looked stunned before, now he looks like he might lose consciousness.
“Dead?” He repeats. His eyes dart around the room, as if the man’s ghost might burst in. With recent events, that might not be too far fetched.
“You killed him?” The way he’s watching me makes me squirm, and I realize if Creed knew how many deaths were by my hand, he would despise me. Admitting to one to protect Eden is the very least of my crimes.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The response shocks me, and I rear my head back an inch. Creed deflates and plops back into his seat. Resting his head in his hands, he takes a few shuddering breaths before asking his next question.
“How badly is she hurt? I’ll never forgive myself if she—” He pauses, swallowing hard and averting his gaze. “I’ll never forgive myself.”
“The blood wasn’t hers. She’s…” I struggle to find the right word. “scared.”
Creed nods, bringing his thumbnail to his mouth to gnaw on it.
“You should go see her.”
He huffs humorlessly at that.
“She shouldn’t want me near her.”
“That's not true,” I argue, brows knitting. Creed mirrors my expression.
“Isn’t it?” He says. “It’s my fault.”
Grabbing his untouched meal, he’s back on his feet and scraping it into the trash before placing the dishes in the sink. The hair on his head sticks up in all directions, and his shoulders are rigid with tension. Putting my own obstinateness aside, I choose not to push him.
“Fine. In the morning then.”
With a sigh, he nods.
And then he’s out the door, and I’m left alone, the tug of dread in my stomach my only company.