Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
SOFEE
The threadbare rag in my hand is almost completely covered in my brother's blood as I finally step out of the kitchen over an hour later. My hands are still hot and sticky as I try my hardest to wipe away the evidence of what happened here tonight. I didn't have time to put on gloves before I had to help Liam. And I ended up covering every inch of exposed skin, up to my forearms, in his thick, dark red blood.
The average human body needs anywhere from five to six quarts of blood to survive. When one considers the size of a quart, they don't really tend to realize just how much that actually is. The best way to comprehend the volume of a quart is to watch it draining from your brother like a sieve onto the floor. I can personally guarantee that you won't realize how much it actually is until it's flooding all around you, covering your bare feet.
Looking down at the ground now, it appears that the person who has lost all this blood is likely dead by now. But, thanks to Owen, that didn't happen. I don't know how, and I don't want to know , but he managed to get me the blood I asked for. Which was a good thing because even if I had removed the bullet as planned, Liam would not have survived the night without the additional blood.
I feel as though my tunnel vision is finally wearing off as I push through the swinging kitchen door and step back into the main bar area. My own breathing is so loud in my ears that I can barely hear the hushed voices all around me. They fall silent in their quiet conversations as they notice me entering the room, but I keep my head down and my eyes fixed on my bloody hands. I try my best to ignore the deafening silence as I frantically swipe at my fingers, rubbing them raw with the coarse kitchen rag.
Most of Liam's blood is dry now. It coagulated some time ago as I had no hope of wiping it away until after I was done playing trauma surgeon. The thick, sticky liquid has since turned into a flaky, crumbly mess. I'm hoping it doesn't stain my fingers like it has my memory.
There are more men in the clubhouse than there should be at this time of night, but I ignore them all as I walk over to the bar. The sounds of my bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor echo inside my chest. I focus on the soft thudding sound, desperately ignoring all the curious stares as I walk. But even as I pretend not to acknowledge their existence, I can still feel every single eye burning a hole into me as I spot the sink behind the bar.
Multiple men, all dressed in black, are seated at the bar. They turn, tracking me as I step closer, but not a single one bothers to speak to me. Which is probably for the best. Even if I wanted to speak to any of these men, I have nothing to say to them that wouldn't get me in trouble.
I want to scream and rage, but I seal my lips for fear of what I might say. I’ve always known Liam keeps some less-than-savory company. As far as I know, his job includes a variety of distasteful activities. And I know, without introducing myself to these men, that they all share the same predisposition as my brother. All of them have no qualms about bending the thin line of morality that separates us from the animals. And I hate them for it.
I despise the fact that they all consider it completely acceptable to put themselves in dangerous situations. Loathe the reality that every member of The Insidious would sacrifice their lives for some godforsaken job. Most of all, I detest the fact that even though one of their fucking jobs nearly took my brother away from me, I have to come to terms with him returning to it once he's recovered.
Even if I can't bear the thought of one of them walking out that door and never making it back, they must be allowed to do so. Everything the MC has done, still does, is necessary in some way. I know that just as much as I know it's my brother's blood coating my fingers. And though I have no idea why this job came to pass, I know they have a greater purpose to serve, and I have to continue to allow them to do so.
Even if it kills me to think that maybe next time, it may not be Li whom I have to save. Next time, it could be Declan.
Declan, whom I must restrain and extract a bullet from while he screams for mercy. Declan, who has to bite down on a wooden spoon so hard that his teeth permanently blemish the handle. Declan, whom I would have no choice but to watch as he passes out from the pain while I cauterize his wound to stop the bleeding. The likelihood of him becoming the next half-dead, broken body I have to fix is a very real possibility.
And one that scares me more than it should.
Shaking myself away from my dark thoughts, I round the bar that nobody is tending and step up to the small sink used to wash glasses. I could have used the kitchen sink to do this, but I needed to get out of there as soon as it was safe to leave Liam. I couldn't bear the worried glances from Tatum or the hollowed look in Declan's eyes any longer.
Throwing the ruined rag into the basin, I turn on the hot water until a river of steam rises from the faucet. Without hesitation, I plunge my blood-caked hands under the scalding water, only wincing slightly at the burn.
The water runs deep red as I dampen the dried blood, bringing new life to it before it swirls down the drain. Sniffing, I scrub my fingers briskly, using my fingernails to scrape the blood out from every nook and cranny.
Get it off, get it off, get it off.
Bending slightly, I run one arm under the water, ensuring to scrub up to my elbow where the evidence begins to dissipate. I then repeat the process on the other side.
Once I'm rinsed, I reach for the bottle of dish soap. Or, at least, I try to grab the bottle, but it slips right through my fingers. The water still dripping from my soaked arms is now a light pink as I finally manage to corral the slippery bottle with shaking fingers. I had a steady hand the whole time I was torturing my brother, but the moment I left the kitchen, I finally allowed the shaking to start. Now, I fear I may never be able to stop the tremors.
Sniffing once more, I hastily turn the bottle upside down and pour the blue liquid soap onto my palm. Letting the bottle drop back into the basin, I scrub my arms, creating a thick, satiny foam. Soon, the white bubbles turn pink too. Picking up the dried-up sponge next to the sink, I start scrubbing myself. It scrapes against my tingling flesh as I clean my skin until it burns. And still, I keep going, desperate to get this blood off my hands.
Dipping down, I hastily rinse myself in the steaming water once more. My arms are tender, and the hot water only adds to the pain as I hold them under, watching them redden from my own blood rising to the surface from the harsh cleansing.
They're clean, my hands, that is. Visible to the naked eye, my hands are as pristine as they were only two hours ago. But even so, I can still feel my brother's lifeblood dripping between my fingers as he fights to stay conscious. So, I reach for the bottle of soap once again.
My fingers are trembling so badly that I fumble again when I grab it. Flinging the half-empty container onto the hardwood floor, it makes a hollow sound that echoes in my mind. Sniffing loudly, I swipe angrily at my nose with the back of my hand before bending down to pick up the bottle. Pink water drips from my nose as my shaky fingers graze the plastic, only to be halted by a tattooed hand grabbing it first. The dark black bird adorning the flesh there seems to mock my struggle with death just moments ago as I stare at it.
Moving my gaze up from the stranger's hand, I visually climb his arm. Tightly corded, tattooed forearms covered in small dots of blood meet my gaze. Further up, a filthy, dark blue button-down rolled up to the elbows. It's ripped and tattered in a few places, allowing me to catch glimpses of the heavily inked flesh just beneath the fabric. A delicate chain encircling his neck, like a lover's embrace, catches my attention. The small circular pendant rests against the hollow of his throat, twinkling under the dim bar lights as he swallows.
Up my eyes climb, all the way to his almost familiar lips. Only these lips aren't surrounded by a short, black beard like I'm used to seeing, having felt against my own lips. My breath catches as he smiles and speaks for the first time.
“It's hard, isn't it?” His deep question rumbles over me, awakening all my nerves to send jolts of recognition down my spine. Blinking rapidly, I shift my gaze to his, and I'm instantly captivated by his deep blue, almost violet eyes. They sparkle as he smiles down at me. Declan, yet not Declan.
“What's hard?” I rasp without thinking about what I'm asking. My voice is gravelly from disuse mixed with shock. I only found out the other night that Declan has a brother, but now I realize he has a twin brother. An identical twin brother. So much alike, yet so, so different in a way that's difficult to explain.
His smile is familiar, yet altered. It's the same slightly crooked grin with straight teeth, but not as guarded as Declan's. The same dark hair, but not. Dark as the night, yet lacking those sun-lightened strands. His eyes are the same dark shade, but different. The color matches, but these eyes don't shimmer quite like Declan's. They're dimmer in a way. These eyes have witnessed too much, experienced too much.
Declan's twin smiles again as he reaches over and turns the faucet off. The white noise that once surrounded me is now gone, and the silence seems to bring me back to reality slowly but surely.
“Being your brother's keeper,” he murmurs as he replaces the soap bottle and reaches into the slowly draining basin. I track his movements as he grips the old, blood-tarnished rag out of the sink and squeezes it. Hot trails of water cascade down his tattooed fingers and drip into the basin below as he unravels the rag. Once satisfied, he brings it up to my face.
I back away from him, but he catches my wrist with his free hand. He shakes his head and clicks his tongue as if I'm a wayward child. Anger flares inside me, further pulling me out of my earlier deranged state.
“You're a mess, cara ,” he croons as he brings the warm cloth to my chin. I flinch away from him, but he holds me still as he gently wipes my face. “I'm afraid tears and dried blood never mix well.” Pulling it away, he shows me the blood that was on my face. I hadn't even known it was there. Or that I was crying. But as if my feelings are finally returning to me, I finally notice the cold dampness just below my eyes.
Despite knowing better, I decide to go against my better judgment and let him clean away the blood as he returns the towel to my face. He swipes under my eyes as I study him. His gaze is guarded in a way I've only ever seen in men with great burdens weighing them down. I hadn't noticed when he first spoke, but the entire left side of his face appears to be red-tinged as if he were bleeding, and he only half-heartedly wiped it away. Looking up, I catch sight of the reason. Right above his left eyebrow is a blood-stained bandage.
Without much thought, I raise my free hand to pull the bandage away from his brow so I can inspect the wound as he swipes at my face again. The tape securing the once-white bandage pulls at his skin before finally releasing, allowing me to see a two-inch-long laceration marring the flesh there. The blood that was once leaking from the wound has stopped for now, but I can tell he will need stitches soon.
His movements slow as his nostrils flare, and his gaze locks onto mine. Ignoring the curiosity swirling in his violet eyes, I prod at the wound. The slight tightening along his jaw is my only indication that he's in any sort of pain.
“I'll stitch you up,” I whisper as he makes his last swipe across my face.
He chuckles as he removes the rag and tosses it into the sink beside us. “Will you?” he asks, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I think I'd fare better having Dominic sew me back up. What with your shaking and all.”
I inhale sharply before pulling away from him, only to realize he's right. I'm still shaking like an addict going through withdrawal. Pulling my wrist from his grasp, I shake out my hands as best I can. I'm about to apologize when his laughter captures my attention once more.
“Here,” he turns and grabs the nearest amber-colored bottle and a clean glass from the shelf next to us. I watch as he pours two fingers of the dark liquid into the shiny glass and hands it to me. Curling my lips at the unknown liquor, I try to find the words to refuse his gesture. He chuckles again. “It's for the nerves. You're running high on adrenaline, and this will help you come down faster. That way you can stitch my face without ruining my best feature,” he grins with those familiar lips, and I find myself mirroring the expression.
Taking the glass from him, I timidly sip the contents. The smoky flavor of the dark liquor coats my tongue before burning its way down my throat. I sputter and cough before quickly putting the glass down. Declan's brother bounces with laughter as I click my tongue to the roof of my mouth in disgust. Yuck!
When I look back up at him, he's smiling down at me as if I'm some great joke. I furrow my brows and stand tall. Meeting his gaze with a challenging look of my own, I find my words.
“I don't understand what's so humorous,” I state.
His smile broadens. “It's just,” he says as his dark gaze rakes me from head to toe, bringing my attention to my state of dress. Before I had to save Liam's life, I was dressed for bed. And now I'm painfully aware that this stranger can most likely see my nipples through my ragged, thin tank top. I cross my arms over my chest quickly before he meets my gaze again. He rubs his chin with his palm and tilts his head to the side before speaking.
“This is the first time we have met, no?” he asks, and at my nod, continues. “And the first thing you do is offer to stitch me up.” His grin is sheepish as his hand moves to the back of his neck. He rubs the muscles there for a moment before dropping his hand into his pocket. “And you haven't a single question for me?” he asks, but it's not really a question. “Not a single 'Who are you?' ‘Why are you bleeding?' ‘Why do you look like Declan?' Nothing.”
My lips twitch with humor even as I try my hardest to keep my scowl in place. I can't tell if it's his distraction or the nasty brandy he made me drink, but I can feel my hands steadying just as surely as the fog lifting from my brain. I shift my weight to one hip before answering him.
“Well, seeing as I have two eyes that work perfectly and an IQ level above six, I can effectively deduce that you are Declan's estranged brother. Twin brother, to be exact. Not that I even knew he had a brother until the other day,” I murmur the last bit more to myself than anyone else. “And as for the bleeding, well, that can be answered by the first realization. If you are Declan's brother, there is a solid eighty percent chance that you both share the same thrill of participating in seedy, ill-advised, borderline-illegal activities. Thus, resulting in the injury that you have obviously sustained simply by engaging in such a lifestyle,” I finish with blatant smugness dripping from each word.
I silently challenge him to argue with me, but he doesn't. What he does next is the exact opposite of how his brother would react to my overweening attitude. Where Declan would bluster up and get angry with me, resulting in a verbal lashing that I would only return tenfold, his brother simply smiles. I mean, really smiles . So wide, I can see almost every one of his pearly whites.
“Now I can see why he is so taken with you,” he states lazily. I furrow my brows and shake my head.
“If by 'taken' you mean hostile beyond measure, then yes, he is definitely taken with me,” I grouse with a roll of my eyes.
“No,” he shakes his head with a chuckle. “No, I definitely mean taken as in smitten, obsessed, overcome with the need to claim you as his.” His dark eyes rake down my body in an appreciative glance that has heat staining my cheeks. “Taken,” he murmurs with a shrug as if he's not shaking me with his revelations.
Declan is obsessed with me? Fat chance of that being the truth. How can it be when he has shown me over and over again how much he despises me with every anger-infused word he has ever spat my way?
Although his earlier actions in the hospital would point to a different conclusion, and you know it. The voice that only I can hear croons at me. I shake my head, blocking it out.
“How hard did you hit your head? I think you're confused. Do I need to check you for a concussion while I'm stitching your brow?” I ask as I place my hands on my hips in opposition. “Declan has never had a single kind word for me.”
“Ah,” he steps forward and grabs my hand away from my hip. His thumb grazes against the back of it, sending shivers up my arm.
Am I attracted to this?
I flinch at my thoughts. There's no way I am attracted to Declan's brother. It's simply the fact that he looks so much like Declan that it's causing my brain to short-circuit a little. Tricking me into thinking that this is Declan finally touching me in a way I've only ever imagined.
But, this is not Declan, and I need to remember that.
His eyes capture mine as he pulls me closer, my feet reluctantly stepping nearer as he does. “Passion can manifest in various ways, Sofee,” he accentuates each syllable of my name, drawing my gaze to the lips so close to the ones I've longed for attention from.
He smiles. “Sometimes it comes out in carnal, tantric, pleasurable ways.” His dark eyes catch on my throat as I swallow thickly. “And, sometimes it comes out as harsh words written with sharp tongues. When in reality, words are the last thing we want gracing our tongues,” His words are poetic in a way that has my body responding confusingly.
He shakes his head and pulls my hand closer still. I briefly consider jerking it away from him as he raises it to his lips, but I force myself to watch instead. His violet eyes flick to mine again before pressing his lips to the back of my hand. His lips are surprisingly soft for such a hard-looking man as he kisses my hand before grinning. “My name is Romeo Morelli. It is a great pleasure to finally meet you, Sofee Santos.” He winks up at me, but doesn’t release my hand. That is, until someone forces their way between us.
Not just someone, but Declan.
I have no chance to say anything as he shoves his brother back against the bar. The glasses stored underneath rattle violently as Romeo bounces off the old wooden bar before meeting his brother's hardened gaze.
Declan’s shoulders are rigid, and his fists are clenched so tightly that I’m sure his palms are screaming for reprieve. His nostrils flare with each heavy inhale as he stares at his brother as if he’s the greatest threat in the building.
“I told you to stay the fuck away from her,” Declan snarls as he rushes his brother. He grabs him by the front of his dirty, bloody button-down and hauls him forward as if he weighs nothing. My heart rate quickens in a matter of seconds as I hurry to grab his arm just as he pulls back to punch him. I barely manage to restrain him before he can let his fist fly into his brother's already damaged face. Romeo holds his hands in the air, but I still notice the slight smirk on his lips that will do nothing to calm the beast residing within Declan.
“We were only talking, Fratellino ,” Romeo says much more calmly than a man in his position should.
I yank the thick leather of Declan’s vest to gain his attention. “Romeo needs stitches, Declan. You need to stop this right n–”
He whips his head in my direction finally, pinning me with a death stare meant only for me. "So, you're on a first-name basis with my brother now?” he snarls the question.
Anger thrums through me at his words. I narrow my gaze at him. “Am I not allowed to meet new people? I didn’t realize it was some big fucking secret. Since you’re about as chatty as a goddamn monk, someone had to tell me his name. I don’t understand why you felt the need to keep him a secret,” I retort.
He turns away from his brother now, fully facing me with his mask of fury in place. His violet eyes almost glowing with an anger I don't understand. “Because it’s none of your fucking business, Brat,” he growls. “Did you ever stop to think that I keep secrets like this from you for your own good?”
I furrow my brows and gnash my teeth together. “What the hell does that mean? What else are you hiding from me, Declan? Does it have to do with why Li almost died tonight?” I seethe. Why would he keep something from me for my own good? If he’s lying about something that concerns me, I have every right to know what that is.
All of a sudden, as if he flips a switch, all the anger leaves his expression. His brows flatten as well as his lips. The anger rimming his violet eyes dims and almost disappears so abruptly that it gives me whiplash.
“This conversation is over.'' His voice is monotone as he slides past me. But I’ll be damned if I let him shut down and get away that easily. I grab his arm and pull.
“No, you don’t get to keep walking away from me!” I yell at his back. He keeps pulling, but I refuse to let go. I dig my bare feet into the polished floor as he drags me with him. My feet screech against the floor, drawing all eyes to our argument. I should be embarrassed by the scene I’m creating, but I’m too pissed off to care. “Stop walking and tell me what you’re hiding from me. Let's start with why you didn’t want me to know you had a brother?”
Suddenly, he moves, and I lose my footing. He spins, and I stumble backward, but he catches me before I crash to the ground. My breath leaves me in a whoosh as he grabs me by my waist and crowds me against the liquor shelves. My heart leaps into my throat as he forces me into the same position he had me in not even two weeks ago. I swallow thickly as his intensely dark gaze captures mine, and he looms over me. Gone is the mask of indifference, and in its place is one of utter and complete animosity.
“I don’t want you around my brother because you are dressed like a fucking slut, covered in your brother’s blood, and flirting with him as if he wouldn’t slit your pretty little throat without a second thought,” he growls. My mouth drops open with a gasp at his crude words. The same words I would have longed to hear drip from his lips, now being used against me in such a cruel way.
His jaw feathers as his hands tighten around my waist to the point of pain. “Liam lays in a room not even twenty feet away, fighting for his life. Meanwhile, his sister parades around the next room with her tits on display, letting strange men touch her.” Tears spring to my eyes as he speaks. I attempt to break free from his grip, but he refuses to let go.
“Have some goddamn self-respect, stop acting like a desperate troia , and leave.” He finally releases his grueling grip on me but still looms over me. I force myself to maintain eye contact with him even as a hot tear rolls down my cheek. “Now!” he shouts.
I flinch before pushing at his chest to escape. He backs up a step as I glare up at him. More hot tears leak from my eyes as I meet his hard gaze. “Just when I start to think that maybe, just maybe , you’re not a complete fucking asshole,” I let my words trail off as I step into his space. I crane my neck to meet his scowl with one of my own. “You make me hate you all over again,” I growl, trying like hell to keep the tremble working its way up my spine at bay.
“I will speak to whoever I choose to speak to,” I snarl. “I will dress however the fuck I want to dress.” My breath heaves from my chest. “I am not just another weak bitch you can tell what to do. You don’t own me. You ignorant, pompous, prick. Do us both a favor and fuck off , Declan,” I say slowly, biting off each syllable before pushing his chest again. His brows twitch, his mask briefly slipping and revealing something beyond anger for a split second. But I don't care anymore. I can’t keep doing this with him.
I push away from him and immediately feel every eye in the bar lock onto me. Despite the attention, I hold my head high as I make my way toward the stairs. I refuse to let shame chase me as I walk calmly up to them. But even as I try to keep them at bay, silent tears continue to fall from my eyes, landing with solid thumps against my chest.
How could I be so fucking naive? The other morning in the hospital, I thought maybe, just maybe, Declan felt something for me other than disdain. I could have sworn I felt something click into place when he grabbed onto me like his lifeline. When he finally gave me a glimpse of the Declan I always hoped existed deep within his soul.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Brat,”
His words from that night chase me as I finally make it to my room. The same damned room that’s across from the one belonging to the man who was just so cruel moments ago. Gripping the cold wood of my door, I stare at his. It’s closed, just like the man who resides within. Completely and utterly closed off to me, locked away for reasons he will never explain. I stare at that plain door as hurt and fury mix, creating a devastating storm in my core until I’m practically vibrating with unexpressed emotion.
And just like Declan, I lock it down so nobody can see and slam the door to it all.
My breath leaves me in a violent whoosh as the door rattles against the frame. I turn and lean against it before slapping my hand over my mouth to quiet my sob or scream of fury before it bubbles up from my throat. My eyes are blurry as I bounce the back of my head off the cool door, trying to clear my vision as well as my mind.
My gaze snags on the blood-red flowers Joel brought me that night at the hospital. My brows furrow as I observe the wilted flowers, their tips now brown and crispy as they slowly rot in the vase.
“If I bring you flowers, would you smile at me like that?”
Declan’s soft question bounces around my skull as I push away from the door and walk toward the dying flowers. Joel's card with his phone number sticks out of the deep red petals, the white of the card acting like a beacon for my fingers.
I don’t care what Miles and Max have both told me about Declan. I don't even care if his own brother has told me the same thing. Declan’s actions, past and present, have done nothing but show me the exact opposite. They have only shown me how much he hates me. As my fingers grasp the crisp white card, I realize that his actions will never tell me anything other than that. He holds no respect for me whatsoever. It's time I stop holding on to a possibility that seems so far out of my reach when I have something real to grasp onto right here, right now.
So as I pull that card from the bouquet of death, I shove Declan and his hateful words out of my mind and embrace a new possibility altogether.