Chapter 42 Come What May – Elijah
COME WHAT MAY
ELIJAH
I'm turning into Atticus.
When I'm finished, I lean back to get a wider view of the new additions, and a smile tugs at my lips.
I lean forward again, adding a little finer detail, capturing the way those tiny hairs on the slope of her neck stand up when I touch her.
The whisper-soft, controlled strokes of the brush are the hardest, and I have to take several breaks to stretch out my hand to be able to continue, but I'm determined to finish this now.
It's so close.
I chew my lip, a bad habit I didn't think I'd ever need to worry about again, as I flick the brush one final time and then set it down with trembling fingers.
I'm not sure what I expected when I finished, but it wasn't for my eyes to suddenly burn.
It wasn't for my chest to grow tight or for it to be harder to breathe.
But there she is. I'd thought it'd be Renaissance style, but even though it's oil, it's not. The chiaroscuro effect of the heavy contrasts of light and dark, the intimacy and detail, it's Dutch Baroque. One of Mom's favorite styles to paint. And I painted it.
The ache in my chest grows, and I clench my teeth to stifle the burn that runs all the way down my esophagus.
It's good.
Even with the mistakes I made.
It's really, really good.
Mom would've loved it.
My chest spasms, and hot tears scatter from my eyes, one landing with the taste of salt on my lips.
I clench my fists on my lap even though it hurts.
The scars on my back throb, but I shut out the memories. I wasn't forced to paint this. I wasn't forced to my knees, stripped bare, and whipped until I relented…or passed out from the pain.
I painted this because I wanted to.
It's mine.
Not his.
I thought he took this from me, too.
But maybe it's not something that can be stolen.
And without her, I might never have realized I still had this part of my soul.
Two quiet taps sound at the door, and all the blood drains from my face. "Just a second!"
I lift the heavy canvas and rush to the back to stow it away with the blank ones in the supply closet, careful not to smudge any of the new paint. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
My pulse races and my palms grow slick, making me nearly drop it.
"Elijah?" Aurora's soft voice floats through the door.
I kick the supply closet door shut and look down at my apron, covered in haphazard lines and smears of color.
I grumble to myself as I pull it off and toss it in the next cupboard, then clench my teeth when I see the paint stains on my hands, the easel still in the middle of the floor, and the little pedestal table covered in the mess of my work.
I sigh and go to the door, mentally kicking myself. There's no reason not to tell her, but I'm not ready yet. I don't want her to see the painting. I was wrong. It's not finished. There's still more work I need to do.
It's not that good.
Not good enough for her.
I clear my throat and unlock the door, opening it to find her waiting on the other side.
"Angel?"
I push out into the hall, taking her face in my hand. "Are you okay?"
It looks like she didn't sleep at all.
It looks like she's been crying.
What's going on?
"Come here." I pull her to my chest and rest my cheek on the top of her head. "Did something happen?"
She shakes her head against me. "No. I mean, yes, but—"
"Did Atticus say something?"
He's been weird since that dinner with Céline. Distant. Spending all day in the library plotting and planning.
"No, it's not him, it's me."
Aurora pulls out of my arms. "What do you mean?"
"There's something I have to tell you. You and Seven. And it can't wait any longer."
My stomach sours at the pleading look in her eyes. I don't like it. Not one fucking bit.
I swallow. "Okay. Give me a few minutes to wash up?"
Her brows draw together, realizing what she missed when I first exited the studio. My angel lifts my hand to inspect the paint stains on my fingers and the side of my palm, and I let her.
Her eyes turn glassy. "Elijah, are you…" She covers her mouth with her hand, swallows, and lets it fall away. "Are you painting again?"
This was the sort of pressure I wanted to avoid, but I don't see expectation in the way she's looking at me. Just…joy.
"Nothing serious," I tell her, letting myself smile a little. "I didn't want anyone to know yet."
She twines her fingers with mine. "Baby steps."
I nod. "Yeah. Baby steps."
She bites her lip and looks away, slipping her hand from mine. "I'm going to go get Seven. Meet me in the kitchen? I'll put some coffee on."
"Okay."
I'm as quick as I can be, cleaning the paint from my hands and changing my shirt, pausing only for a moment to admire the first piece of art I had a hand in making in years.
The black-and-gold canvas hangs proudly across from my bed and is the only real spot of color in the bedroom at all. Waking up to it almost every morning has had me more eager to get out of bed than I think I've ever been.
Because getting out of bed now means I might get to see her. Or hear from her. Or paint her.
Seven's teasing voice rings in my ears from something he said the other day when I finally told him I was painting Aurora.
Someone's a little obsessed with her…he said in a singsong voice, sucking air in through his teeth as if it's a bad thing when the fucker is clearly as obsessed as I am.
What could she have to tell us?
And why only me and Seven?
I'm confused when I walk into the kitchen and find everyone already there. Not just Sev and Aurora, but Ellie and Atticus, too.
Ellie comes for some pets, clearly curious what's got everyone in the room so tense.
"Come on, girl," Aurora says. "Outside for a bit."
She lets Ellie out back, much to Ellie's dismay, but she only hesitates outside the door for a few moments before trotting down the path toward the pool.
I eye them all warily, trying to piece together what exactly is going on here as Seven sleepily pours himself a coffee and burns his tongue trying to drink it without letting it cool.
He grimaces and sets it down on the counter, sagging against it as he rubs his eyes. "What's up, Ro?"
When his brows pull in, I find what's got him confused—it's the easy way she's standing only a few feet from Atticus. The way he's positioned himself behind her, leaning against the entry to the hall with his arms crossed over his chest like he's her bodyguard or something.
"Angel? What's going on?"
She sits heavily at the island and props her elbows on its surface, pressing her palms into her eye sockets.
"Take your time," Atticus tells her in a soft tone, and Sev and I share a look.
Something happened.
I don't know what, but there's definitely a different vibe between them than there was last night. But for once it's not malice or hostility. This is something else entirely and relief floods me.
Did he finally get through to her? Did she finally forgive him?
Crossing the kitchen, I take the stool next to her. "Are you guys okay now?"
I pull her hands from her face, but she slides them out of my grip.
"Wait," she mutters. "Let me get this out."
"Ro?"
The concern in Sev's tone sets me on edge. It sets her on edge, too. I can tell by the way she winces at it.
My pulse picks up, and I lift my eyes to Atticus behind her. "What is this?"
I didn't mean it to sound so accusatory and I swallow back the tone, trying on a softer one. "What happened?"
I don't like seeing her like this.
A muscle tics in Atticus's jaw, but it's clear he's not talking.
"It's not about him," Aurora is quick to say, then takes a shaky breath. "There's something I haven't been completely honest with you about. I didn't know for sure until Sunday, and then when I did, I didn't know how to tell you."
Her gaze doesn't budge from the surface of the kitchen island.
"It's okay," I tell her, already prepared to forgive her no matter what she says. She's clearly torn up about it, and I don't want her to hurt. I never want her to hurt. "Whatever it is, it doesn't matter. We'll figure it out."
She laughs darkly. "It's not something you can figure out."
Sev comes to lean over the island, and she casts him a furtive glance, and I don't know why, but it bothers me that she can look at him, but not at me.
My chest tightens.
"I think I know what this is about," Sev says to no one in particular.
"I promise you, you don't," Aurora replies, then takes another deep breath and begins. "It was only suspicion at first. It started the first time I met Ambrose."
She tugs the necklace from beneath the collar of her T-shirt. "When he recognized this."
Aurora sighs and then begins at the beginning.
She struggles to keep an even tone as she explains everything she's been too scared to say and I don't know when exactly I stopped breathing, but by the time she's finished giving us every detail about how Ambrose is her father, I'm lightheaded from the lack of oxygen.
She's been carrying this for weeks?
And then to find out it's true and be so terrified to tell us?
Oh, my angel…
Her chin quivers. "And I— I'm so, so sorry I didn't tell you right away."
She still won't look at me, but she's been casting curious looks at Sev, and I see why.
He doesn't look even half as surprised as I feel.
During her explanation, he poured her a glass of water and sat down opposite her, nodding and waiting as if she were rehearsing a script he'd already read.
But how could he have known?
And fuck…what does this even mean?
I wrap my hand around Aurora's atop the island and turn my attention to Atticus, who somehow already knew this truth.
"She told me last night," he explains before I can ask. "And I did some digging. There was a secondary test run. My guy was able to get a copy of the results from the other lab, and they're legit."
Aurora shivers as if this is news to her. And if she was still holding out a tiny micron of hope that it could be false, Atticus eliminated that.
"And you?" I ask Sev. "You knew, too?"
He shakes his head, and Aurora looks up at him. He speaks to her as he answers me. "I guessed."
Her face pinches. "How?"
"You've been off since that first meeting with Ambrose, and I knew it wasn't the part you were playing. There was clearly something else, but you weren't sharing."
Now that he says it, I did notice that, too.
"And then later, when I spent the night with you at your apartment—"
"When you what?" Atticus snaps.
"Not now," Sev and I say at the same time, and mercifully, Atticus shuts up.
"I stayed for a while after you fell asleep," Sev continues. "And you were talking in your sleep. I didn't know what it meant at first, but I figured it out."
Her lips part in surprise. "What did I say?"
"'He's not'," Sev says. "You kept muttering it over and over. He's not."
"Why didn't you say anything?" Aurora asks, almost accusingly.
Sev's bright blue eyes hold hers with more tenderness than I thought him capable of. "Because you weren't ready to talk about it."
"You aren't upset?"
Sev's lips twitch. "I wish you'd said something sooner instead of carrying this so long, but no, baby, I'm not upset."
She relaxes a fraction, and I hope I have the right words to say to make her see that this only changes things if she wants it to.
I give her hand a squeeze and shift on my stool to face her. "Could you look at me, Angel?"
She swallows hard, and her jade eyes flit to mine and then away, and I hate how her chin quivers again.
"Please," I whisper, and she steels herself before turning to face me.
"I'm sorry," she says again, her eyes welling when they finally hold on to mine.
"For what?" I shrug. "You have no more control over who your parents are than anyone."
She sniffs.
"I should've told you sooner."
"Maybe," I relent, "but you're telling us now, and I'm glad you did."
"You are?"
My stomach twists, and I swallow back the bile trying to rise in my throat, squeezing her hand tighter to stop the tremble from showing in my own.
"I am. Right now, it's important for you to know that I don't give two fucks if you're biologically related to him, but what does matter—what I do care about—is how that affects you. How knowing this affects how you feel about us. And…about him."
My skin itches, and my throat is dry as I push the words out.
"It would be completely normal for you to…" I choke on the words. On the bile in my throat. "For you to feel a connection with him, and if this changes—"
"No," she says firmly, gripping my hand back with the same tenacity that I'm holding hers.
"I mean, yes, of course, if he were anyone else, maybe, but this is the man who betrayed your family, who stole from you, and held you captive and hurt you.
He's the man who almost had you killed in Paris.
His men shot Seven. They'd do worse—he'd do worse if he ever got his hands on any of you.
I could never have that sort of connection with anyone who would want you dead. "
She isn't going to leave us…
The sick roiling in my stomach recedes enough for me to relax some of the tension in my shoulders.
"But what about you?" she asks. "I'm the daughter of the man who broke your family. Can you actually accept that? Accept me?"
I use my grip on her hand to pull her right out of her seat and onto my lap, wrapping my arms around her and burying my face against her chest.
"You accepted my scars, Angel. What kind of man would I be if I couldn't accept yours?"
And I know it when she trembles in my arms and holds me back just as tightly. I love this woman.
I love her.
I love her, and I am not willing to lose her. Not for anything. Not for the return of my family's legacy. Not for pride.
And definitely not for vengeance.
I hope my brothers feel the same.