28. Zira
ZIRA
Two days ago, Bradley brought me to seemingly the middle of nowhere to take my time, process, and deal with how I’m feeling.
Everything about the journey here and the words that came out of his stupidly handsome face angered me, and I’m still angry.
It’s not the cabin itself. That’s beautiful.
There are tall fir trees surrounding the cabin and stretching down the driveway to the dirt track at the bottom, and they line one side of the dirt path at the back of the cabin that leads down to the stunning lake.
A lake that’s completely empty of all other people and glitters beautifully in the sun.
I’d appreciate it, but the shimmering water just reminds me of the diamonds and everything I’m trying to avoid thinking about comes back in a hot flash.
My room is also beautiful with a large oak bed and pillows so fluffy, it’s like I’m sleeping on a cloud.
Valentina and Ivy worked together to buy me a new wardrobe, and it fills the drawers of the oak cabinet next to a full-length mirror on the wall for me to admire my new clothes and the dark, heavy bags under my eyes.
The rest of the cabin is as soft and as beautiful, with a fully-fitted kitchen, a fireplace filled with sweet-smelling logs that burn and crackle whenever Bradley lights them, a small study complete with a computer and a library and a few game consoles, and a bathroom that looks right out of some kind of nature catalog.
I should like it.
I should probably love it, but the beauty of the place sickens me and I hate Bradley for bringing me here.
I hate him for showing up with his stupid, handsome face and his large, thick muscles that carried me to the bath without struggle.
I hate that he wears a blue checkered shirt and reads out on the deck like everything’s alright.
I hate how he bathed me and not once did he try to sleep with me, and my thoughts tangle between his being obviously too disgusted by me or he’s biding his time.
And I hate that he’s doing this nice thing to make me feel better because it doesn’t.
It makes me feel worse. I don’t deserve peace and time in nature when Peter’s dead and I’m all alone.
I don’t deserve it when Harris is out there somewhere waiting for me to bring him those diamonds and knowing I’ll have no choice to do so.
Before we came here, I told Bradley everything that happened in the house and he told me he would take care of it, but he didn’t tell me how. When I asked, he told me to focus on myself right now, and it’s infuriating.
I spend three whole days just sunbathing and swimming in the lake to work out the pent-up anger inside me, and for the most part, it worked.
The water’s beautiful, the sky even more so, and it’s freeing to swim out into the water for as long as I want and as far as I want.
I always come back to shore and when I’m lying down, drying in the sun, Bradley’s there.
He’s always there. Hovering. Either on the deck, reading, or fishing in the lake, or hiking through the trees to get more firewood.
Or he’s in the kitchen cooking delicious meals or offering me light conversation with polite questions and sweet smiles.
Or he’s swimming in the lake when I want to swim so I’m forced to wait and watch as he wades out of the water in tiny trunks that barely hide that thickness between his legs, walking as if he doesn’t know the water rolling off his body is killing me every time I see it.
I hate it.
And I hate him. For what he did and what he’s doing now. For making me want him.
And myself. I hate myself for what I did. For what I didn’t see in my brother or Bradley.
Worst of all, when I tell him all of this, he doesn’t react. He doesn’t lash out, he doesn’t yell at me or give in to the argument I’m craving. He remains kind and quiet like always, and each night, I return to bed utterly pent up and furious at how he’s acting and I can’t pinpoint why.
Until one night when he’s cooking some amazing chicken curry on the stove with light music playing and the fire crackling in the lounge.
He whistles softly along to the music and moves around the small kitchen with surprising ease, considering his height and his bulk make the place look minuscule in comparison.
“Do you want rice?” he asks over his shoulder as I walk to the sink and fill my glass. “Or bread. I could make some naan. Might take me a little longer, but it’s no hassle.”
Something about the way he speaks, or the words he says, end up being the last straw and I snap. “Will you just fucking stop?”
Bradley lowers the heat under the curry as he turns to face me. “Excuse me?”
“Rice or naan? Because of fucking course you know how to make naan. Is there nothing you don’t know? Are you just fucking all-knowing and all-seeing?”
Bradley’s brows lift faintly. “I know because I learned.”
“Because I learned,” I mock back. “Like it’s that fucking easy to just go out and learn shit because your rich little life is so fucking easy, well I don’t need your pity or your help or your stupid naan, okay?
I don’t need it, and I don’t want it!” My voice climbs until I’m yelling at him and in my anger, I very nearly throw my glass at him but stop myself at the last second.
“Zira.”
“Don’t!” Setting the glass down, I throw my hands up and back away from him into the lounge as he follows. “Don’t do that shit!”
“What shit?”
“Where you say my name and act like everything is okay and that you don’t hate me, because I know you do. I hate me too, so it’s okay, but I don’t need your fucking pity, okay? Because I know that you pulled the trigger and Peter is dead because of you!”
Bradley removes the tea towel from his shoulder and drapes it over the back of the couch as he follows me, but he maintains his distance. “I do not pit you.”
“Yes, you do!” I scream back at him. “I see it in your eyes! I see it! You look at me and I see the look of pity because how could this stupid, stupid girl not know her brother was betraying her? How could she not recognize him when they were next to each other on all those robberies? How could she be so stupid as to fall for such a fucking stupid lie? I know you’re thinking it, I know you are! ”
“Those aren’t my thoughts at all, Zira.”
“They are!” Tears spring hotly into my eyes.
“I know they are! I see it every time I look in the mirr—every time you look at me! What a fucking fool, what a fucking stupid bitch! I see it and I know it, and stop staying my fucking name! You don’t get to say my name when you killed him, you killed my brother.
The boy I raised all by myself when we were forgotten about, the boy I gave up my entire life for, the boy I loved because he was all I had and you—” Tears choke me, colliding with the anger in my chest.
It’s as if something twisted and terrible is trying to claw out of me and I’m letting it. I can’t stop it.
“You killed him! He was all I had, I did everything for him, and you killed him! You’re a monster and I hate you!” Suddenly, everything near me becomes a weapon, and if it’s not nailed down, it ends up in my hands and is launched at Bradley with everything I have.
Books. Coasters. Cushions. A candle dish. A photo frame or two, and even an old ashtray. What he doesn’t dodge just hits him on the chest with little issue. The ashtray shatters on the wall behind him, and the fact that he dodged infuriates me even further.
With a yell of agonized rage, I launch myself at him and pound my fists against his chest. When that doesn’t get a reaction out of him, I slap him repeatedly with all my strength until his cheek is dark red, but he still doesn’t do anything. He just stands there and takes it like it means nothing.
“Fight me!” I scream at him, punching his chest as hard as I can. “Why won’t you fight back! Why won’t you do anything! I hate you! I hate you, I hate you!” Slapping him again is like slapping a brick wall and on reflex, with no real thought, I grab the lamp from the table.
Bradley moves.
He sweeps me up with one arm around my waist and drags me away from the table, removing the lamp from my reach before I’ve fully grasped it.
I scream in rage, kicking and flailing my arms, and he puts me down immediately only to wrap his arms around me from behind and press his chest against my back.
“It’s okay,” he says in that ever-patient, deeply soft voice. “It’s okay.”
“Fuck off!” I scream through my tears. “Fight me! Fight me! Hit me back! You hate me, so show it! That’s what people do, so fight me! Why won’t you fight me! Why won’t you—” I choke on the next sob and dissolve into tears while my struggles to escape his warm hold fail.
“I don’t hate you,” Bradley murmurs. “Not at all.”
“I do,” I gasp as my breathlessness cuts through my tears and I pant from the exertion of my screaming, yelling, and fighting.
“I hate myself. I hate me so much, how could I not see that he hated me? How could I let him do this to me? My own brother? I hate him. And I miss him. And I hate Harris… I shouldn’t have let him escape. I shouldn’t have…”
Trailing off, my focus becomes breathing through the immense tightness gripping my chest from the inside.
Tears dry on my cheeks, the scent of floral spice fills the air, and Bradley remains an anchor at my back.
He doesn’t let me go and his embrace remains firm, but there’s softness to it.
He holds me, his body mirroring mine as I sag forward, and then guilt blooms under my ribs.
“I don’t want to feel anything,” I gasp wetly. “It’s all too much. I can’t… I can’t do this.” Slowly, very slowly, I turn to Bradley and meet his warm, concerned gaze. “Help me.”
“You’re not angry at me, Zira. Not really.”
“I am!”
“Tell me. What do you need?”
I have no answer and can only shrug. “I-I don’t… I don’t want to feel anything anymore.”
“Cutting yourself off won’t help,” he says carefully, like every word is specifically chosen to soothe me. “You need to feel this so you can process and heal.”
“I-I hate it.”
“I know, Zira. I know.”
A sudden urge for anything other than pain, grief, and guilt washes over me, and before I know it, I’m cupping his face with his bruised cheek warming my palm. Surging up, my mouth collides with his in a kiss that starts hesitantly.
“Please,” I gasp against his lips. “I wanna feel anything but this!”
Bradley pulls away and his dark eyes lock onto mine. “What are you asking for?”
“Drown everything out,” I beg him. “Just for one night. Please.”