12. Zyran
ZYRAN
Ikick the door closed behind me, sliding the lock into place as I shrug my jacket off and hang it next to the others.
The house is warmer than I expected, and not just in temperature, but in the laughter that filters through the foyer and living room from the kitchen.
The air is thick with the smell of food, garlic, and something roasted, hitting me low in the stomach, which starts to growl.
Voices drift down the hallway from the kitchen, overlapping in an easy way that brings a smile to my face. Cyran laughs, and the sound is nice, something I didn’t realize I’ve missed.
I slow as I reach the doorway, taking in the scene before I step fully inside—Slater is at the stove, sleeves pushed up, focused on easing a large pan off the heat with deliberate care, more than you’d think a giant, six-foot-seven man would hold.
Rhys stands at the counter beside him, nursing a coffee, and surprising me that he’s not hiding up in his little cave.
Cyran leans against the island, stealing something off a plate when he thinks Sybil isn’t looking, while Raiden watches him, shaking his head, with a drink in hand.
Then there’s Sybil standing at the counter, piling up pasta onto each plate, peering over her shoulder as I step inside.
“Perfect timing,” she nearly yells, smiling. “We’re just finishing up.”
I wink, moving further into the room before I reach past Rhys and snag a piece of chicken from the edge of Slater’s pan. It’s still so hot that it stings my fingers, and I pop it into my mouth, hissing softly when it burns my tongue.
Slater doesn’t look up, but he does pause before sliding the pan a few inches farther away from me.
I grin around the bite. “Rude.”
Cyran snorts beside me. “You’re lucky he didn’t stab you.”
“Am I lucky? Or just faster?” And just to prove him wrong, I reach for another piece without looking, fingers hovering over the edge of the plate like I’ve done hundreds of times before. Slater's hand moves at the same time, swift but not fast enough.
I click my tongue, withdrawing my hand. “See? Reflexes.”
Cyran laughs, leaning closer to the counter. “You say that like you weren’t limping last week.”
My eyes twitch at his words. “That was strategic limping,” I shoot back. “Lowers expectations.”
Rhys grunts, setting down another plate with a soft click, eyes flickering between us. “You’re going to get food poisoning if you keep doing that.”
“I’ll risk it,” I mutter, stealing a piece of broccoli from Cyran’s plate. He swats at me but is too slow; I dodge easily, already chewing and swallowing the piece.
Raiden watches from his spot near the fridge, a faint curve at the corner of his mouth. “You’re going to regret antagonizing him,” he mutters.
I glance towards Slater, who doesn’t spare me a look, but I see the dark eyebrow move slightly as he reaches for another plate, plating some chicken onto it.
“It’ll be worth it,” I mumble. Though I’m not entirely sure—I just hope he doesn’t bruise my balls like the last time.
Sybil chuckles, sliding between me and Cyran like she’s done a thousand times, nudging a plate toward me so that I’d only stop stealing if I had my own.
It works for now.
I take the plate, moving to the table before settling into one of the chairs.
One by one, my brothers sit down, the conversation shifting with ease.
Cyran starts telling a story I’ve heard at least twice, embellishing the worst parts, but it still brings a smile to my lips.
I interrupt when he gets something wrong, and just like old times, he fires back without missing a beat.
Rhys corrects us both in a hushed tone, while Raiden listens, only interjecting just enough to keep us all honest.
At some point, I realize I’m not monitoring the room anymore; I’m not checking the exits or watching their hands. I’m there, fork in hand, arguing over something inconsequential and stupid.
Sybil watches me from across the table, her expression curious, and when our eyes meet, neither of us look away. I don’t know what she reads over my face, but she smirks, almost like she’s satisfied, and then goes back to eating.
For a moment, the noise fades to something that it used to be, distant and warm. And for the first time since I got shot, I let it.
The gym’s already warm when I step inside, the air thick with sweat and the low hum of the fan fighting a losing battle overhead. I load another plate onto the bar, metal ringing sharply in the quiet space, and then lie back, setting my grip.
The weight comes down smooth and controlled, and I press it up, exhaling before lowering it again. I do this over again until the door creaks open behind me on my sixth rep.
“Real subtle,” Cyran says from the door. “I can hear you grunting all the way up the stairs.”
I rack the bar with a dull clang and sit up, resting my forearms on my thighs, sweat dropping off the end of my nose.
“You always gotta announce yourself?”
“Well, sneaking around never worked on you.” He says, dragging a bench closer with his foot before dropping onto it, elbows braced on his knees, as if he isn’t going to lift anything and is only here to be in the way.
I grab my towel and wipe my face before grabbing my water, taking a long drink from it.
“Dinner was good,” he says casually, or as casual as Cyran can be.
“Yeah,” I grunt.
“Sybil went a little heavy on the garlic.”
“She always does.”
He hums, nodding his head and glancing around the gym. When he doesn’t say anything else, I toss my towel and lie back down. Just as I lift the bar, he says, “You’ve been down here a lot.”
I huff out a breath and put the bar back before sitting up again. “It’s better than staring at the ceiling.”
“Fair.” He shrugs, “but you know, you don’t have to keep outrunning it.”
I blink up at him, eyes darkening. “Outrunning what?”
Cyran glances over, clearly unimpressed. “You tell me.”
I shrug, rolling my shoulders. “It helps me sleep.”
He doesn’t need to know that I haven’t been sleeping.
Sleep means letting my guard down, which means the quiet becomes louder and the darkness becomes too thick.
It means my brain takes the things I spend all day shoving into a locked room and drags them out anyway, not caring how far or deep I try.
It’s relentless, the same scenes, same moments, just in a different order—trying to catch me off balance.
I can handle exhaustion; I can work through it, joke about it, and even watch my favorite girl. I can exist just fine with very little sleep.
What I can’t take is waking up braced for impact, my heart racing, jaw locked, and hands clenched as if I’m still holding something I had to fight for.
It’s the way the past doesn’t truly feel like the past and more like a warning that I need to prepare for.
So I stay awake. I let my body burn itself out instead; I let the fatigue blur the edges just enough that the thoughts lose their teeth.
“Does it?” Cyran asks.
“You don’t have to babysit me,” I tell him.
“I’m not.”
I roll my eyes, knowing damn well that’s what this is. “You sure? Cause that’s what it feels like.”
He blows out a breath, shrugging. “I’m just… around.”
I don’t bother saying anything, knowing that if I did, it wouldn’t end up good. But my twin doesn’t care about that.
“You don’t talk when you’re hurting,” he whispers, low enough I second-guess if I heard him right. “You just go quiet.”
My fingers flex, curling into a fist before I can stop it.
“I’m not asking you to explain yourself,” he continues. “I don’t need details, but I do need you to know you’re not carrying it alone.”
I try to focus on anything but his words—the fan that rattles above, a door slamming shut somewhere in the house. Anything solid that didn’t crawl under my skin.
“I can’t protect you from whatever’s in your head. And I hate that I can’t, but I need you to know that I can sit here with you, as long as it takes.”
I shift on the bench, elbow digging into my thighs, while my hands stay clasped so tight my knuckles ache. My gaze stays glued to the floor, on the scuffed rubber between my shoes.
“You were there,” Cyran mumbles.
My breath catches before I can stop it.
“When Emmeline… when I lost her. You didn’t fix it, and you didn’t pretend that you could. You just… you stayed. You made sure I ate; you sat with me when I couldn’t sleep. Zyran, you didn’t let me disappear.”
My knuckles crack, nails biting into my palms.
“You saved me in ways I didn’t even realize were happening at the time. And I hope you know, I want to do that for you too.”
His words land heavy in my chest, weighing down in a way that I can barely breathe through it.
I nod because it’s the only thing I can do. And thankfully Cyran doesn’t push for more; he never has, and right now I’m grateful for that. He shifts back, giving me a glance before he gets to his feet, clapping a hand over my shoulder—firm and grounding in a way that I don’t acknowledge.
He doesn’t overstay his welcome, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click that echoes louder than it should.
While I’m glad to be alone again, the gym feels bigger and colder without him in it. The hum of the fan fills the space, steady and indifferent. I sit there for a moment, resting on my knees, shaking against my skin.
The quiet creeps back in, and with it comes the familiar pressure, the weight that never really goes away. It’s the memories waiting just beneath the surface, patient, waiting for me to be weak. I feel them stir, like they’ve been listening the whole time.
I lie back on the bench and grip the bar, letting the cold steel bite into my palms. The weight is heavy when I lift it off the rack, heavier than I’ve ever done before, but I welcome the strain.
It’s better than the alternative.
Ishouldn’t be here.
I really shouldn't, and I knew it the moment my wheel hit the lot and I killed the engine. The bar’s neon sign buzzes faintly through the windshield, but I sit there anyway, hands resting on the steering wheel, knuckles pale under the dash light.
This isn’t healthy—watching her like this.
Timing my days around a place I don’t belong.
It was different before my accident; before then, I could blame it on the fact that Rhys wanted coffee from there almost every day.
But now, almost like he knows something is wrong with me, he stopped, and then I couldn’t find a reason to see her.
That and the fact everything’s different—the way I view the world; it’s harder, rougher.
The engine ticks as it cools, and I scream at myself to go home, work out, or find something to keep me grounded.
But I grew up in a place like this.
Bars where my mother disappeared into the crowd and eventually stopped coming back. It’s where my father drank himself into someone that was loud, mean, and unpredictable.
And after she left—it only got worse.
My father never said her name again; he just took whatever he could find—could reach—and took it out on us. On me and Cyran.
I learned early on how to read a room, how to tell whether the night would end quietly or bloodily.
It was then that I learned how to take a hit and stay standing.
Normal was never an option from the time I was five.
It was never safe.
I exhale slowly, pressing my forehead briefly to the steering wheel before forcing myself upright. Pain from the gym earlier still hums through my muscles, dull, but it’s enough to help keep me anchored to now instead of my past.
And when I think about her, I think about the way she looks like she’s bracing even while standing still. The way her eyes track exit before she frowns at herself, realizing what she’s doing. It’s how she hides the pain she has behind a mask, hoping that no one would see.
She deserves someone—someone clean.
Simple.
She deserves a life that doesn’t come with blood under the nails and a past that might not stay buried.
Esperr deserves someone who can tell her the truth.
And I can’t.
It’s the cost of killing people for money.
I mean, granted, I kill abusive parents; it’s not like they deserve to be alive—a normal girl wouldn’t accept what I do. She wouldn’t look at me the same once she hears the things I’ve done, the things I’m capable of doing without hesitation.
I refuse to be the thing that ruins her.
And that thought sits heavier than the rest.
I can deal with what happened to me, but I won’t be the monster that brings her down. So I need to let her go. I need to walk away before this turns into something uglier, before my presence starts to stain whatever fragile peace she’s built for herself?—