Chapter 7
Creed
I give up on sleep around six in the morning.
Dash tried piling drinks into me all night, but once Hyde came back with Millie and immediately took her upstairs, I pushed my glass aside, refusing to drink more.
Though I was tempted when he came back down, spewing a stupid ass excuse. “She’s tired. She turned in for the night.”
She wasn’t tired.
She was uncomfortable.
I spent months keeping Hyde in the right frame of mind whenever she called. Months of making sure he checked on her every day. Months of tracking her progress and steering my best friend who loses half his brain cells wherever Millie’s concerned.
And after all that time, after waiting so fucking long to meet her, I’ve made a stellar first impression. I made her fucking uncomfortable. The very last thing I want her to feel around me.
It stung and gave me a deep need to drown that feeling with liquor, but Millie’s already paid the price for who I become when I’m drunk, so I grabbed a bottle of water instead and spent the evening semi-present, my mind ping-ponging between the funeral and ideas for making her less defensive around me.
The guys stayed downstairs long after I headed for bed. I could hear them talking until two a.m. while I lay awake, tossing, turning, and dreading the morning.
I refill my coffee cup, careful not to make much noise so my friends can sleep off their hangovers. Standing by the sink, I watch the fog curl over the lawn. Even from the warmth of my kitchen I can tell it’s freezing out there today.
Taking a slow sip, my brows pinch and pulse kicks up as the front door opens with a soft whoosh. Millie’s in the hallway, silently toeing her shoes off, chest rising and falling with deep, measured breaths, headphones covering her ears.
Looks like I’m not the only one who couldn’t sleep.
Every muscle in my body locks tight at the sight of her and it’s fucking ridiculous. Not as ridiculous as what’s tearing me apart, though. I don’t know whether to give her space or stay and pretend her silence doesn’t feel like my skin’s being stripped from my bones.
I choose the latter. I’m not sure how she takes her coffee and it’s not like she’ll tell me, but I fill a cup anyway. Fetching milk from the fridge, I set it on the table.
She freezes in the kitchen doorway, wide eyes landing on me, headphones around her neck now. I have half a mind to grab them and check what she listens to.
Her lips part but words remain stuck somewhere down her throat.
She’s deliciously flushed, a thin sheen of sweat glistening at her hairline and down her neck.
She’s wearing a pair of obscenely tight-fitting leggings and a sports bra beneath her hoodie, unzipped halfway.
The milky skin of her collarbones is peppered with freckles and the hastening rise and fall of her scarcely covered tits redirects my blood south.
Damn it. My head pulses with an incoming headache.
She’s Hyde’s little sister. He’s my fucking brother by choice. He made it explicitly clear that she’s off limits... but my cock didn’t get the message.
Neither did my head, if I’m honest.
I spent months worrying about her well-being, asking Hyde for updates, wondering if she’d ever fully recover, thinking about her day in and day out.
I’m the reason she’s like this... almost mute, hiding away, making herself small to stay invisible.
That and many more reasons say I should not sport a hard-on over Millie Ward under any circumstances.
I’d never deserve to touch her, anyway, but my body doesn’t care and my cock’s stirring like she’s already mine.
As if I’d ever be good enough for her.
She’s perfectly decent, dressed the same way most girls dress for the gym, but Hyde would have a hissy fit if he came down now. He’d be furious, and not at her.
No, he’d blame me.
He’d expect me to tape my eyes shut, pluck them straight out of their sockets, or lock myself in my bedroom until his sister was covering more skin.
“I didn’t peg you for a runner,” I say, pulling my head out of my ass as I grab a Gatorade from the fridge, tossing it for her to catch. “Drink.”
Given her thinly veiled defiance last night when she laid her king down, I don’t expect her to obey, but she uncaps the bottle, holding my gaze as she drains the contents.
“Good. Now go grab a shower.”
And she does.
Turning on her heel, she rushes up the stairs, her golden-blonde braid swinging softly between her shoulder blades.
Deep lines dent my forehead. Looks like exercise does wonders for her mood. She didn’t frown or scowl once.
I’d say that’s progress.
The water pipes groan when the shower starts.
I grab a pan and crack a few eggs, seasoning and whisking fast. Hyde went shopping yesterday, stocking my fridge to the brim like he’s planning on spending another week here.
Among other things, he bought natural yogurt, which neither of us eats, so I assume it’s for Millie.
I check the wall clock, my neck prickling. Greta will be here soon. It’s a miracle she didn’t come over the moment I informed her about Jeremiah’s overdue passing. Instead of being sad, she was furious that I’d waited so long to give her the news.
She should be thankful I called at all.
For a twin who spent her life loudly proclaiming how much she adored her brother, Greta’s reaction was surprisingly calm, once she’d talked herself down, muttering under her breath how very shocked and devastated I must be. How very grief-stricken that calling her sooner didn’t cross my mind.
I let her think she was right. Maybe she’ll swallow the upcoming insults easier if she believes I’ve spent the last few days bawling my eyes out instead of celebrating and bagging his shit. It’s all in the garage, ready for a bonfire later today.
While I’m far from mourning Jeremiah, I can’t explain what’s been curling my stomach since his eyes lost their sparkle. It’s not grief, but not elation either, more like a slow, festering dread.
The same one I felt when my marks were just shy of perfect and I knew he’d have a field day over it. I couldn’t be mediocre. I had to be top of the class and if I wasn’t, Jeremiah used his fists to remind me that excellence wasn’t a choice, but a condition.
The click of doors upstairs pulls my attention away from the past and back to the present.
Millie’s footsteps are hesitant as she joins me, her wet hair framing her delicate face.
Every inch of previously exposed, soft, delicate skin is hidden under another baggy jumper and a pair of tight-fitting jeans.
A blush paints her cheeks, and I wonder if shyness is the reason she doesn’t speak around me.
I finish preparing our breakfast and set two servings of scrambled eggs and avocado toast down on the table, along with the natural yoghurt she immediately scrunches her nose at.
“Eat,” I say.
Millie’s eyes go wide, but she grabs a fork, digging in.
“Do you want a fresh cup of coffee? That one must’ve gone cold by now.”
She takes a sip, her throat working, and as much as I want to avert my gaze, I watch, waiting.
She answers with a soft shake of her head, reaches for the milk carton, and pours just enough to turn the coffee a muddy color.
Her fingers hesitate, hovering over a spoon as she scans the counter over my shoulder.
“Sugar?” I guess, already on my feet.
Her only reply is pinching those full, raspberry-pink lips together. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over their shape.
We eat in silence. I wish it was comfortable, but there’s no such thing for me. Not when I remember all the times my father didn’t speak to me for days, even when I begged him to.
Silence is fucking unbearable.
Snatching my phone, I pair it with the speaker on the windowsill and press play on my favorite playlist.
“Animal I Have Become” by Three Days Grace starts playing, instantly settling my nerves. Millie looks up, her hazel-blue eyes clashing with mine. I expect she’ll give up first, blush again, or frown, but she holds my gaze painfully long before lifting her cup back to her mouth.
She frowns a little.
Either because the coffee’s gone cold or—
She reaches for the sugar, and I realize I’m squeezing my fork so hard my fingers have gone stiff. Why is she mute around me? Is it that she doesn’t trust me? Maybe she doesn’t like me?
No, that can’t be it. We only met last night... even if it feels like I’ve known her for years.
Annoyance flares behind my ribs.
It’s fucked up how her silence makes me crave her voice more than anything I’ve ever wanted. How my brain scrambles to decipher every scrunch of her nose and tic in her jaw. I’ve never paid so much attention to anyone’s face. Every twitch or frown has me guessing, trying to read her mind.
It’s so much easier to understand a person when they speak.
You can judge their tone, their words, and their body language at the same time.
You can tell if someone’s lying by how they act when they speak, but all I have is body language, and without words, I’m struggling to figure out a single thing.
She finishes her breakfast in time with me, and I clear the plates, listening for sounds from upstairs. I hope Hyde won’t wake up soon and join us.
I also hope he will.
My skin’s fucking crawling and the background music, helpful at first, doesn’t help in the least anymore.
I could flee. I could tell her I need a shower before the funeral.
I could get up and leave without a word, but there’s this violent, nagging curiosity.
I don’t know why I crave her voice, but I do.
So, instead of fleeing, I keep my ass firmly in the chair and force my body to relax. My shoulders slump, my fist uncurls under the table, fingers loosen around the mug.
Millie shrugs the sleeves of her cardigan lower, toying with a loose thread. She’s dressed all in black.
“You don’t have to come to the funeral,” I say.
She looks up, listening.