3. Zyran #2
I start my truck as Sybil opens the door, tossing the muffin inside, before climbing into the passenger side. She barely closes the door before she’s ripping the muffin bag open and shoving a bite into her mouth.
“Oh man,” she moaned, crumbs scattering across the seat. “This is freaking delicious.”
The truck rolls forward, and I pull out into traffic, not bothering to take one last look at the coffee shop.
I grunt, agreeing that the one time I did try a muffin there, it wasn’t bad, not like the coffee.
Sybil then takes a sip of her drink, brows flicking up, and gaze snapping to me. “Oh damn, this shit is good.” Another sip and smacking her lips. "Like really good. I can see why you go there.”
I roll my eyes, turning left. She knows damn well I don’t like that shit; it’s the girl I go there for, nothing else.
As I continue down the road, heading back up the mountain, I can feel Sybil’s eyes on me, eyes narrowing the way she does when she’s peeling layers back one by one.
It’s an annoying trait she has. “S0…” she starts, taking a bite of the muffin.
She chews, crumbs falling out of her mouth and onto her lap.
“You gonna ever tell me why your jaw was locked like you were eating rocks back there?”
I keep my eyes on the road, trees blurring by as the town shrinks in the rearview mirror.
“That guy touched her,” I finally say. Sybil is worse than a dog with a bone; if she smells something is off, she won’t leave it alone until she gets to the bottom of it.
She waits as if expecting more, and when nothing comes, she sips her coffee and turns sideways, leaning on the console. “And that was…bad?”
My fingers tighten once around the steering wheel—it’s quick, but she sees it anyway.
Her mouth curves up, slurping that fucking drink. “You didn’t like it.”
“He didn’t need to touch her,” I say instead.
“Hmm, that’s not really an answer.”
I peer at her from the corner of my eye, “yeah, well it’s the only one you’re getting.”
Sybil snorts, sitting back in the seat, crossing her legs. “You care.”
My head snaps to her for just a fraction of a second, but it’s enough to see the smug look in her eyes and the grin plastered to her mouth.
“I–I just notice things.” I corrected.
“Mm-hmmm,” she licks some of the whipped cream coming out of the top of her lid. “I bet you noticed her arms shaking, the lip biting, and her almost-crying face. Normal people don’t catalog those things, Zyran.”
I inhale through my nose, hating that she’s right. And the fact my pulse has just finally stopped pounding, and now it’s low, coiled, and patient.
Sybil uncrosses her legs, kicking her feet up onto the dash. Side-eyeing her, I reach across, shoving them off, which causes her to laugh.
“How long had you been going there?” she asks, feigning innocence like a cat pushing a glass off the counter.
The truck hums on the asphalt as I slow down, turning left.
“A while.”
“And how long is ‘a while’?” she asks, mimicking my voice—or rather, trying to.
“I do not sound like that,” I say, frowning. “I don’t know… a few weeks.”
“A few weeks?”
I tilt my head, thinking about how long I had been driving back and forth for an hour just to get a glimpse of her. “Maybe a few months.”
She whistles, sipping her drink. “Months? And you never told your brothers?”
I let out a breath through my nose, eyes fixed on the road, and my chest tightens for reasons I don’t have a name for yet.
But it begs the question: why haven’t I told them?
Not Rhys or Raiden; surely not Slater; and not even Cyran.
Cyran, my twin, the one that knows me inside and out, the one who’d get it. Or at least listen without turning it into something heavy.
But this?
For some reason it feels fragile, new—like if I say it aloud, it’ll become real, and I’ll feel too exposed. They’ll ask questions that I don’t have answers to. I’d bleed for them, kill for them, and die for them without even thinking… I almost already did.
Yet this secret, I want to keep it just that, a secret, something that only I know. And unfortunately, Sybil now.
“I don’t know,” I admit quietly, fingers tapping the steering wheel. “I just didn’t.”
Sybil raises a brow like that answer is too small and clearly not enough. “You tell Cyran everything…like when you superglued your balls to your leg. But this? You don’t.” She huffs, poking my ear. “You’re weird.”
I chuckle, wagging my brows. “I’m always weird.”
She whistles, finishing her muffin. I think she’s finally dropped it, but a few minutes later, she’s turning her attention back to me. “Months? Seriously? And you just never said anything? I mean, I know there was that one time you mentioned it, but I thought?—”
“There was nothing to say.”
She looks at me like she’s counting the lies I’m spitting out.
“You’re full of shit,” she decides to say, and then because she’s the worst, she pops her finger into her mouth before shoving it into my ear.
I swat her hand away, and she yelps dramatically like I broke her wrist.
“That’s abuse,” she gasps, clutching her hand to her chest.
“Yeah, and the assault was mutual,” I counter, raising a brow.
She laughs, the sound echoing in the cab, contagious even when I try to pretend it’s not. I shake my head, fighting a smile that wins anyway, and she leans over, poking my shoulder.
It’s not long after that our driveway comes into view; a minute later, asphalt turns into gravel that crunches under the tires. The house reveals itself the way it always does—all at once, after the tree line breaks, like it’s been waiting.
Dark wood river stone, built into the side of the property, like it belongs to the land rather than the other way around.
The tall windows catch the afternoon light, a chimney already going, while smoke rises lazily into the cold.
The porch wraps wide across the front, with a large swing between the bay windows moving slightly in the breeze.
And the mountain sits behind all of it.
Sybil unbuckles before the truck is even in park or stops moving, for that matter.
“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re going to break your neck if you don’t wait,” I warn.
“And then I’ll have the chance to haunt you forever,” she shoots back, already throwing the door open.
I throw the gear shift into park just as she jumps out, landing sloppily but confidently, before bolting toward the front door like a little gremlin with red hair searching for chaos. “Oh RAIDEN!” She calls out the moment she’s inside, her voice fading.
I shake my head, grabbing her trash before closing the truck door quietly behind me. Stepping through the front door, which Sybil had left open, warm air hits my face with the smell of faint gun oil and whatever candle she must have lit before we left.
I hear her laughter somewhere in the kitchen, followed by Cyran’s smart-ass comment and Raiden telling them to knock it off. But I don’t follow; instead, my feet carry me upstairs, down the hall, and to the place where all the information lives.
Rhys’ door glows faint blue under the frame, screens probably running like always. I knock once out of respect rather than necessity, and when he doesn’t answer, I push the door open.
Inside, Rhys is exactly where I expect him—hunched over his desk, with headphones around his neck, three monitors lit with code, surveillance feeds, and whatever rabbit hole he’s digging around in today—something I’ll never understand.
He doesn’t look up immediately, but I know he clocked me the second the hinges creaked and the floorboard echoed from my boots.
I step inside, closing the door behind me before leaning against the wall.
He pauses between flipping through the screen, slightly turning his chair, and raising his brow. I let the silence stretch a breath too long before saying, “I need some help.”
His posture shifts, attention sharpening as his curiosity switches. “With what?”
“Esperr, she works at Wicked Co. in town. I want to know everything.”