Chapter 15
Istumble into Morella’s room and close the door behind me with a soft click that feels deafening in the quiet.
My back hits the wood, and I lean into it like I might fall through if I don't. My mind is racing, breaths shallow and uneven.
My arms throb in pulses, the ache blooming with each frantic heartbeat.
I can still feel his fingers wrapped around them, like the memory of pressure refuses to fade.
The room smells faintly of vanilla and whatever shampoo Morella uses that always reminds me of warm summer nights. Her fairy lights are on, casting a soft golden glow across the plush rug and cluttered dresser. The quiet hum of her diffuser is the only sound.
Morella prances out of her closet, freshly showered, her black satin nightgown clinging to her figure in the low light. A towel is twisted on top of her head like a crown, and her bare feet make soft whispers against the floor. She sees me and halts mid-step, her entire body stiffening.
“Oh my god, Liv! Are you okay?” she asks, her voice sharp with panic. She crosses the room in a flash. “What happened? Did Rafe do something?”
The name slices through the air, and her expression flashes from concern to instant, blazing fury. I shake my head quickly.
“No. I…” I start, but the words snag in my throat. My lungs won’t cooperate. I can’t seem to catch my breath.
Morella reaches for me, her hand soft but sudden.
I flinch. Her touch barely grazes my skin before I pull back, but it’s enough.
Her eyes flick downward, and she gasps. Her fingers find the inside of my bicep, and she sees bruises.
Faint but undeniable. The shape of fingertips blooming in muted purples and greens across my pale skin.
“What the fuck, Liv?” she breathes. “What the hell happened?”
She turns my arm gently. There are more on the backside. Four deeper marks. Her mouth parts slightly, and her brow creases.
I pull my arm away, brushing her hand off with more force than I mean to. “Nothing,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “I scared myself and I must’ve held on too hard. I bruise easily.”
The silence hangs thick between us.
Then I push off the door. I open it wide, letting hallway light spill across the floor. Morella steps back a little, her mouth still open, one eyebrow raised in skeptical disbelief.
“Let’s go bake those cookies,” I say, forcing cheer into my voice that tastes like iron. I hold out my hand and wiggle my fingers.
She stares for a second longer, long enough to make me wonder if she’ll call me out. But then she slips her hand into mine and grins. Just like that, she’s dancing down the hallway, pulling me along behind her.
The hallway stretches out ahead of us, dim and quiet, with only the soft brush of our bare feet against the cool wooden floors breaking the silence. Morella’s fingers are still looped gently through mine, her satin nightgown swishing softly around her legs as we move. The house feels oddly still.
I can feel her glancing at me every few steps, like she’s waiting for something. My chest still feels tight, but the silence between us is starting to stretch, brittle and awkward, and I know I have to break it before it cracks wide open.
“So,” I say, “I’m thinking chocolate chip, snickerdoodle, and maybe… peanut butter?”
Morella perks up just slightly, her fingers giving mine a gentle squeeze. “Peanut butter with chopped peanuts,” she says. “Gotta have the crunch.”
I glance at her. “Of course you’d like crunch,” I tease, the corners of my mouth twitching. “You always go for the ones that break your teeth.”
“Please,” she scoffs, tossing her towel over her shoulder in a single, practiced motion. Her damp hair spills out down her back. “You eat oatmeal raisin. That’s just sad.”
“Oatmeal raisin is elite,” I say firmly, clutching my imaginary pearls. “It’s like, classic grandma magic. Comfort in a cookie.”
She rolls her eyes with theatrical flair but smiles, and I can feel some of the tightness in the air around us beginning to unravel.
We descend the staircase, floorboards creaking beneath us. The house is darker downstairs, the kind of low evening lighting that makes shadows stretch longer than they should. As we turn the corner and pass the living room, Morella slows.
Her eyes flick to the living room where two extra gym bags sit haphazardly by the couch. One of them has a hockey stick strapped to the side, the carpet wet from the melted ice it brought it.
She jerks her chin toward them. “All the guys must be here,” she mutters, not quite masking the irritation in her voice.
My stomach turns, but I say nothing. Just keep walking.
We round the corner toward the kitchen, the scent of lavender cleaner still faint in the air from earlier.
Morella steps forward, but suddenly pauses.
I don’t notice right away, until the tug of her hand falling away makes me stop.
I turn back and find her standing still, staring. Not at my face but at my arm.
Her jaw is tight and her eyes sharpen into something raw and livid, and her whole body goes unnaturally still.
But then she blinks and that fiery anger vanishes behind a perfectly composed mask.
She exhales slowly, straightening her shoulders, and with a grace only Morella can manage, swishes past me into the kitchen like nothing happened.
The kitchen is cool and familiar, painted in warm tones and humming with quiet energy. The marble countertops glint under the overhead lights, and the scent of vanilla from a candle in the corner blends with the lavender.
Morella moves with practiced ease, opening drawers and pulling out mixing bowls whisk, measuring cups and everything else needed to bake cookies. I take over the dry ingredients, measuring flour, and scooping brown sugar. Morella hums softly under her breath as she chops the peanuts.
We move in rhythm, passing ingredients back and forth, sneaking chocolate chips from the bag when we think the other isn’t looking. The room begins to smell like warmth, like memories, like everything I wish I could crawl inside and live in.
When the cookies hit the oven and we perch side by side on the counter, legs swinging like kids again, something inside me feels… lighter.
The countertops are crowded now, lined with baking sheets covered in warm, golden cookies.
Some are soft and pillowy with chocolate melting into the ridges, others rough-edged and lumpy with chopped peanuts.
The air is thick with the buttery sweetness of it all, the kind that makes your mouth water before you even pick one up.
Morella uncorks a bottle of sparkling cider and grins as she reaches into the cabinet, pulling out two tall, dark-stemmed champagne flutes. “No pre-party tonight,” she declares, pouring the bubbling drink with a little flair. “One hangover per weekend is the house limit.”
“Thank God,” I mutter, accepting the glass. The bubbles fizz at the back of my throat, cool and sharp. My arms still ache faintly, but the comfort of warmth, sugar, and Morella’s easy presence softens the edges of everything.
We bask in that calm for a moment, music low from someone’s phone speaker, the overhead lights humming softly. Everything feels golden and suspended, like we’re safe here.
Until the door from the den bursts open. It slams against the wall with a thud, and then Silas barrels into the kitchen like he’s been starved for a week. He skids to a halt in front of the island, his eyes widening as he takes in the cookie-covered counters.
A wide, cocky grin stretches across his face.
“My two favorite things to eat in one room,” he announces. “Cookies and Liv.”
I blink and Morella groans.
“I’m so glad I’m not on your radar,” she mutters, dragging her flute closer like it might protect her.
Silas doesn’t miss a beat. “You know I love you, baby Haverhill, but you’re off-limits.”
Smack.
Rafe appears behind him and lands a clean hit to the back of Silas’s head. Silas yelps, flinching forward.
“Jesus, Rafe.”
“Shut your mouth for once,” Rafe replies, brushing past him.
Archer follows last, slow and quiet, filling the doorway with his broad shoulders. His eyes sweep the room, landing briefly on the trays of cookies before settling on me.
He nods toward the counter. “What’s all this?”
Morella beams and gestures proudly to the chaos of flour-dusted trays. “We baked! Like, actually baked. Come on, try one! They’re going to be so good.”
She practically vibrates with excitement, grabbing a peanut butter one off the tray and handing it to Archer before he can protest. Silas doesn’t wait, he’s already reaching, grabbing, biting in.
I take a slow step back and drift to the other side of the island. The countertop is cool under my elbows as I lean forward, flute still in hand. From here, I can watch without being part of it. The laughter. The teasing. The way the boys crowd together like they’ve done this a hundred times.
I try not to look at Archer. I try not to remember his hands on my arms. I try to focus on the bubbles rising in my glass.
But I don’t miss the twitch in Archer’s brow, the faint grimace on his face like he’s chewing something he wasn’t expecting.
A second later, Rafe makes a noise in the back of his throat that sounds like a muffled cough.
Silas dramatically lurches toward the sink, one hand gripping the counter for support.
“What the fuck is in these?” he sputters, crumbs flying from his mouth like shrapnel. “Are you trying to poison me?”
Morella’s face drops. “What?”
“They taste like regret and drywall,” Silas chokes out, still gagging.
Archer doesn’t say anything, but he places his half-eaten cookie quietly back on the tray. I take another sip of cider and press my lips together to keep from laughing. Something definitely went wrong.