Chapter Forty-One
Bram
I t took all three of us to wrestle King Arthur and secure his jaws. Jett felt pretty bad about letting him get out again. After we load King Arthur in the back of Jett’s truck, I watch Jett drive away. Without Titus. Glancing at the cottage, rocks settle in my stomach.
Well, time to face the music.
I find Titus flipping through the pages of one of my J.D. Black books. “You want to borrow it?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
Titus grunts and places it back on the shelf with the rest of the series. “You sure like his books, huh?”
Shrugging, I push off and step inside the living room to face what’s likely to be an interrogation. Or my death. Depends on what Titus thinks he knows. “He’s a good author.”
Titus makes a noncommittal sound, turning slowly to face me. “So how badly did you screw up?”
Sighing, I scrub a hand down my face. “It’s not what you think.”
“And what exactly is it, then?” he asks, arching a brow.
I work my jaw back and forth. “It’s nothing, Ty. Just a misunderstanding.”
“Quinn was crying, Bram. It’s not nothing.”
“It’s complicated. Just forget it.” I pray he’ll let it drop for now, but I know that’s not going to happen.
“No. Go on. I’m all ears.” He crosses his arms, propping up against the wall like he has all the time in the world.
Scowling, I brace myself for what I know is coming. “Quinn found out about Lois.” The words taste bitter on my tongue.
“Hmm . . .” Titus doesn’t look surprised as he brings a hand to his bearded jaw. “Kind of exactly what I told you would happen, right?”
My narrowed gaze slices to him. “Yeah, I get it, Ty. I messed up.” Plopping down on the couch, I sigh. “I’m going to fix it.”
“How?”
“I don’t know! Okay?”
“You should have told her,” he says, his tone neutral. I’m grateful there’s no accusation in his voice.
I run a hand through my hair. “Yeah, tell me about it.”
Titus is quiet for a moment. “Talk to me, Bram.”
A bitter chuckle escapes my lips. “That’s rich coming from you.” Titus isn’t amused, throwing me a look that says I need to suck it up. Sighing, I say, “What do you want me to say? I’ve already admitted I screwed up. Quinn overheard me talking to Cyrus on the phone, but she only caught pieces of the conversation.”
“What did you say?”
“I was telling Cyrus that I love Quinn.”
“Do you?”
I glare in his direction. “Yes,” I say through gritted teeth. He grunts and waves me on to continue. “But she also heard me talking about how I’d dreamed for so long about marrying the wrong sister. Except she misunderstood and thought I said I did marry the wrong sister.”
“Idiot,” Titus mutters.
“Yeah, I am fully aware of that. Thank you.”
He shrugs. “Just thought I’d remind you.” Glancing away he takes a deep breath and meets my eyes. “You did mess up. Royally. But if what you say is true, that you love her, then you need to fight for her.”
My chest aches remembering Quinn’s tear-filled eyes. “I do love her. And I am going to fix it.”
Titus pushes off the wall and claps his hands together. “All right. That’s good enough for me. You ready to take me home?”
I groan. I forgot he rode over with Jett. “Yeah, sure.” Rising, I turn to leave when Titus grips my shoulder and squeezes.
“You're my brother, Bram, and I love you.” His gaze pierces mine, the threat clear in his gray eyes. “But if you don’t fix it . . .” He trails off, pounding my back harder than necessary. “You’ll answer to me.” Giving me a wicked smirk, he strides away whistling an upbeat tune.
I grumble under my breath as I grab my truck keys and follow behind him.
When I get home, Quinn’s car is still not in the driveway. Sucking in a deep breath, I trudge inside with heavy steps. Everything in me longs to go after her, but I know she needs space right now. I just pray it’s not a permanent space.
The sound of tires crunching in the driveway draws my attention. Peeking through the door, I spot Quinn parking and slowly getting out of her car. She looks exhausted. Pain slices through my chest. My palms grow clammy as I brace myself for whatever is waiting when she comes inside.
Please, God, let her listen to me. And forgive me.
The door opens and Quinn steps in, her gaze bouncing to me and darting away quickly. “Quinn,” I breathe out, stepping toward her.
She holds up a shaky hand. “I don’t want to do this right now, Bram.”
My shoulders deflate, but I notice she’s still shaking as she hangs her purse up. “Are you okay?”
A bitter chuckle escapes her lips. “You think a couple hours is going to fix this?” She presses her fingers into her temple.
“No, of course not.” I move closer. “You’re really pale, Quinn. Have you eaten?”
She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.” Her voice wobbles and panic grips me.
Clasping her elbow, I reply, “You’re not fine. Let’s go to the couch, and I’ll get you a juice and check your sugar.”
She makes a weak attempt to break free. “I can do it on my own. I don’t need you hovering over me. I’m not an invalid,” she snaps.
“I didn’t say you were.” I lead her gently to the couch, praying that her levels will stabilize and we can avoid a trip to the ER.
Collapsing onto the couch, Quinn leans her head back and moans. “I’m so dizzy.”
I pull out my phone and check the diabetic app. Her level is low, but not dangerously so. Yet. I quickly grab a juice, candy bar, protein bar, and bottle of water from the kitchen and bring them to her. Sitting down on the couch, I open the straw for the juice and stick it inside the carton. “Here, sunshine. Drink this.” I hold it out for her.
Lifting her head, her narrowed eyes dart between the juice and my face. “I am so angry at you,” she whispers.
The pain in her voice twists my heart as I push the juice box closer. “I know,” I reply softly. “But you can be as angry at me as you want to be while I take care of you.”
After another moment of hesitation, she reaches out a shaky hand to clasp the juice. I watch as she drinks it before offering her the candy bar.
It doesn’t take long for her hands to stop shaking and the color to return to her cheeks. She still looks exhausted. I grab the remote and turn on Little Women . Sitting back, I place a pillow on my leg and pat it, hoping she’ll take the offer.
Her eyes flick to the pillow before she lets out a long sigh and lays her head down. Reaching up, I grab the throw from the back of the couch and drape it over her. She snuggles deeper into the pillow, and I inhale a deep breath. It’s not a conversation. But it’s a start.
I check her levels on my phone again, breathing out a prayer of thankfulness that they’re stable.
Neither of us speaks as the movie plays. I can’t do anything but pray that her allowing me to take care of her is a good sign. Risking the chance of her biting my hand off, I give into the urge and let my fingers trail through her hair. She stiffens at the first touch before I feel her relax.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” she says in a husky whisper as sleep begins to take her.
“I know,” I reply, encouraged that she didn’t move or tell me to stop. Before long, her breathing deepens and her body has grown limp. I sink into the couch, my eyes drifting closed as I thank God for this small moment of peace.
I wake with a start. My neck hurts, and it takes me a moment to figure out I’m sitting on the couch with warm sunlight shining through the French doors. The pillow and throw are a tangled mess beside me, and that’s when everything from the previous day rushes back to me.
Jumping to my feet, I almost topple back over as thousands of needles stab my legs. The house is dark except for the sunlight streaming through the doors and a light coming out of Quinn’s bedroom.
With heavy legs, I follow the light, praying with each step that we can talk. That she’ll forgive me. That she’ll listen to me.
I stop outside her door and my heart seizes in my chest when I see her with the open suitcase. I’m not sure what to do. What to say.
All I know is that I cannot—will not—lose her.