2. Zyran #2
Sweat runs down my spine, and I punch harder and harder until the edges of my vision blur and my knuckles go raw. It’s only then that the sound in my head quiets, just a little, until there's a light creak outside the stairs.
I freeze, listening to the soft pad of steps, and there’s only one person who walks that softly—Sybil.
Raiden’s girl, the newest addition to the fam, and my best friend, who used to be a ghost before she ever joined us.
She had been raised by her sadistic father, who trained her like a weapon until she escaped and had been on the run for three years.
All until last year, when Alaric, her father, put a hit out on her and was the reason behind the warehouse.
She’s the only one stubborn enough to walk toward a nightmare instead of away from it and is now the one who can look at me when I’m like this and not flinch.
I don’t have to hide from her.
She appears on the threshold, hair a red mess of curls and drowning in one of Raiden’s shirts.
I keep my back to her and throw one more solid punch that lands too hard, rattling the chain so loud even I wince.
“Zyran,” she calls from the doorway.
The ‘don’t come any closer’ is already on my face when I turn.
Her eyes caught what I didn’t want anyone else seeing: the sweat, the shaking, and the shadows under my eyes.
She glances down at my hands and then at the bag still swaying on the chain.
“You good?” she asks, her gaze falling on my face.
I snort, but because of my scar, it comes out rougher than I intended. “Just peachy.”
“Zyran,” she sighs, walking closer. And the way she says my name either makes people tell the truth or punch a wall.
I choose neither.
“Just working out,” I say. But it comes out too fast and defensive.
She lifts a brow, crossing her arms. “At three in the morning?”
“What are you talking about? It’s prime time.”
Her gaze flickers to my neck, and before I can stop it, my hand reaches up. I look away and throw a lazy punch at the bag just so I wouldn't have to see pity plastered to her face.
“You had a nightmare,” she says softly.
I don’t bother saying anything, just toss another punch at the bag; only this one barely lands.
It’s pathetic, and I can feel her eyes burning into my back, and just to prove I’m right, I peer over my shoulder. Her head tilts to the side and then points with her chin at my hands. “You’re bleeding.”
I glance down, and sure enough my knuckles are split open, crimson smeared across the punching bag.
“Yeah, it adds character,” I smirk, stepping away from the bag.
She doesn’t smile, just keeps her head tilted; it’s the same look she gives Raiden when he’s pretending he’s not hurt when they're training—only she softens it for me.
“Want to sit?” She asks.
“Nope.”
“Would you like to talk?”
“Nope.”
She follows me to the bench where I’d placed a rag. “Want me to hit the bag so it stops hitting on you?”
I choke on a laugh, a real one that’s surprising and unwilling. “I don’t think you’d be able to reach it.”
She crosses her arms, fake frowning at me. “Offensive.”
I pick the rag up, wiping the blood off my knuckles. “Sybil, sunshine, you’re like five feet. I don’t think you’d be able to reach it.”
“Five, three, you ass.”
“Yeah, basically the same thing,” I say, tossing the rag into the dirty bin.
Her lips twitch, a tiny smile she tries to hide because she thinks I need to be pitied right now. She’s wrong; I don’t. I need a distraction and a certain blonde, but I don’t mention that.
She walks close, sitting down on the bench a few feet away from me. Glancing at my hands once more, her eyes travel up to my throat before returning to my gaze.
“You haven’t been sleeping,” she announces.
I shrug, “yeah, and sleep’s overrated.”
“And you haven’t been laughing as much either.”
I bite my tongue, knowing if I snapped at her, I’d regret it. And if I did and Raiden found out, he’d rearrange my face. Not that I’d blame him—Sybil’s been nothing but nice since she arrived last year.
“That was never my job,” I say instead.
She nods, lips twisting to the side before she’s muttering, “It used to be.”
That one hits harder than any busted knuckles could. My jaw tightens, and the air feels too tight in my lungs, and I hate that she notices that. I hate how she sees things the rest of them miss or choose to ignore. Even my own twin, the one person who’s supposed to know me inside and out.
I rake both hands through my hair, breathing harder than I should, especially since all I’m doing is standing here. But the rasp in my throat is louder than I want it to be, and I’m too late to look away before she can read it on my face.
“Zyran,” she tries more gently than I’ve ever heard her before. “That night… you almost?—”
“Nope.” I cut her off instantly. The sound in my throat is rough and painful, and she flinches.
“You’re allowed to not be okay,” she tries again.
“Yeah?” I laugh, but it’s ugly and defensive. “And you’re allowed to stop mothering me every two hours. I told you I’m fine.”
She gives me that look that tells me she knows I’m lying. And I don’t provide her any information on how I’m feeling.
I let out a sigh, dropping to the ground next to her, leaning against the bench she's sitting on. We don’t say anything; she just waits, not rushing me or filling the silence with noise. She just stays until my hands stop shaking and I can breathe a little better.
After a minute, I finally peered up and over at her. “Go back to bed, sunshine; you’ll freeze out here.”
“I’m not cold.”
“Then Raiden is. He’s probably already throwing a fit up the stairs, thinking you got kidnapped,” I say smiling.
Sybil chuckles, glancing toward the door; she quickly quiets down, but her smile stays. She's lighter now, softer in a way none of us thought was possible. And she loves that man with her whole damn heart.
“You coming upstairs?” she asks, climbing to her feet.
“In a minute,” I mumble.
With a sigh, she nods, turning toward the door. It’s not until she stepping through that she pauses and looks over her shoulder at me
“Hey Zyran?”
I lift my chin. “Hm?”
“You’re still the light one.”
My throat closes, the scar pulling tight from the way I inhale too fast, and she sees it.
“You just shine quieter now,” she says softly, “maybe your mystery girl could help brighten you up,” and then she’s gone.
I stare at the empty space she left behind. Brighten you up.
Yeah, right.
I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth, tasting sweat and copper. My knuckles sting and my scar burns, and Sybil had the nerve to walk off like she didn’t drop a bomb in my lap.
Mystery girl.
Dragging both hands down my face, I let out a low groan.
I had told Sybil a little over a year ago that I liked this girl in town—it wasn’t a lie. She just didn’t—still doesn’t—know that I’ve never spoken to the girl. I just casually watched her at her place of work and had filthy thoughts about her for a time or two.
“Tch,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. “Brighten up, sure, like that’s an option.”
I climb to my feet and turn back to the punching bag, setting my stance. I hit the bag again, hard enough that my shoulder pops and the bag swings.
My breath comes out rough, scraping through the scar.
Sybil has no idea what she’s talking about.
I haven’t even talked to her in a year; she probably forgot I existed. Even if she managed to remember, I’m not the same guy anymore. The guy who had a voice, smiled when she smiled, and would come in every morning simply to see her face, even if it was just for ten seconds.
Now I'm a scarred-up man who grunts more than he talks and wakes up choking on my nightmares.
I stand and stretch my shoulders, ignoring the tight pull in my throat. It’s quiet now, the only sound of my heavy breath.
Sybil’s probably curled into Raiden’s chest right now; Cyran’s probably sprawled sideways snoring in his bed; Rhys is probably now just going to bed; and Slater, I can guarantee that man is most likely passed out.
I envy the fuck out of all of them.
Their goddamn ability to sleep without a war replaying on a loop in their fucking head.
Scrubbing a hand through my hair, I let out a breath—the basement suddenly feeling too still and like everything I’ve been trying to run from.
My knuckles throb and my throat aches. If she were to see me right now, sweaty, bleeding, and angry at ghosts, she’d run in the other direction.
But I can’t help the pull in my chest—not when it comes to the girl that smiled at me like I meant something but then most likely forgot that I existed the second I stopped walking through the door.
Even if she’s all I think about every goddamn day.