Chapter 12
The headache doesn't stop.
If anything, it gets worse.
By the next morning, I can barely open my eyes without the light stabbing through my skull.
Even the thin gray light seeping through my curtains is too much.
Every photon a needle driving into my optic nerve.
I try to lift my head from the pillow and immediately regret it—the room spins, the ceiling blurs into the walls, the walls blur into the floor, my stomach lurches, and I have to press my face back into the mattress and breathe through the nausea.
The pillowcase is damp with sweat. When did I start sweating? My t-shirt clings to my back, cold and uncomfortable.
My entire body aches. Feverish. Wrong. My muscles feel like they've been stretched too tight and left to snap.
My bones ache. Even my teeth hurt. Like I'm coming down with the flu, except it's not the flu.
It's something else. Something deeper. Something that's crawling through my veins and setting every nerve ending on fire.
I curl into a ball, knees to chest, and try to make myself smaller. Try to compress the pain into something manageable.
I know what it is.
I just won't let myself think it.
I call into work around nine. My phone screen is too bright even on the lowest setting. I squint against it, fumbling through contacts with fingers that won't cooperate. My manager picks up on the third ring.
"Cornerstone Books, this is Dan."
"Hey." My voice sounds like gravel. Rough and broken. Like I've been screaming. Have I been screaming? "It's Max. I can't come in today."
"You okay, Max?" He sounds concerned. His voice is tinny through the phone speaker. Too loud. I hold it away from my ear. Dan's good like that. Actually gives a shit about his employees.
"Just a migraine. I'll be fine by my next shift."
The lie tastes bitter.
"Take care of yourself. Feel better."
"Thanks."
I hang up and drop the phone on the bed. It bounces once. The sound echoes in my skull.
Liar. Liar. Liar.
I spend the day in bed. Curtains drawn tight against the afternoon sun.
The fabric glows red where the light bleeds through.
Even that's too much. Lights off. Even the digital clock on my nightstand feels too bright, so I turn it to face the wall.
The red numbers leave afterimages when I close my eyes. Ghostly and accusing.
I try to sleep through the pain.
It doesn't work.
Every time I close my eyes, my head pounds harder.
Like something is using my skull as a drum.
Rhythmic. Relentless. Maddening. The ache radiates from the base of my skull down my neck, across my shoulders.
Spreads like poison through my bloodstream.
My skin feels too tight. Too hot. Like I'm being cooked from the inside out.
I kick off the blankets. My legs tangle in them. I fight free, limbs heavy and uncooperative. Then I'm shivering, so I pull them back on.
My teeth chatter. My whole body shakes. Then I'm burning again, sweat soaking through my shirt, and I have to tear the blankets off.
Off. On. Off. On.
Nothing helps.
Nothing is ever enough.
Around six, I hear voices downstairs. Muffled through the floor, but I recognize them.
Richard and Margot.
Getting ready to leave.
"...reservation at seven..."
"...be back late, so don't wait up..."
The front door closes.
Silence.
I'm alone in the house with the brothers.
Perfect.
My phone buzzes somewhere on my desk. I ignore it.
The headache sharpens into something unbearable. Transforms. Evolves. Becomes something alive and vicious. A creature with claws that tear at the inside of my skull Like someone's taking a hammer to the inside of my skull.
I need painkillers.
Ibuprofen. Tylenol. Anything. Something. Anything to dull the edges. To make me feel human again.
I drag myself out of bed. My legs feel like they're made of lead. Every movement is underwater. Slow. Laborious. Each movement is an effort. Like I'm moving through water.
I unlock my door. The click sounds too loud in the silence.
The hallway stretches before me. Dark. Empty. The carpet runner is a gray river in the dim light. The walls press in on both sides. It looks longer than it should. Like it's grown in the hours I've been lying in bed.
I take a step.
The floor tilts beneath my feet.
I grab the wall. Press my palm flat against the cool surface. Wait for the dizziness to pass.
It doesn't.
But I can't stay here. Can't lie in bed another second with my skull trying to split itself open.
One foot in front of the other. That's all I have to do. Just make it to the kitchen. Get the pills. Come back.
Simple.
I make it to the top of the stairs and look down.
The foyer below seems impossibly far away. A canyon. An abyss. The marble floor gleams under the chandelier light, and for a second, I see myself falling. Tumbling down. Cracking my head on that expensive stone.
Would anyone care?
Would they even notice until they found the body?
I push the thought away.
Voices drift up from somewhere below. The dining room, probably. The brothers. Eating dinner together like a normal family.
Lucky them.
I grip the railing and start down the steps.
One.
Two.
Three.
My hand is white-knuckled on the banister. The wood is smooth under my palm. Solid. Real.
I'm halfway down when my vision doubles.
Two staircases. Two railings. Two chandeliers. Four walls instead of two. Everything multiplied and overlapping.
I blink hard. Try to focus.
My foot catches on nothing.
Just air. Just empty space.
I pitch forward.
Time slows. I feel it happening—the moment gravity takes over. The moment I stop being a person and become a falling object. Mass and velocity and inevitability.
My stomach drops. My hand shoots out, fingers scrabbling for purchase. Nails scraping wood. Splinters biting into soft flesh.
I grab the railing at the last second.
My shoulder wrenches. Pain lances down my arm. But I hold on.
I hold on.
My heart hammers against my ribs. So hard it hurts.
Holy fuck.
I almost just—
The voices in the dining room stop.
"What was that?" Bane's voice. Sharp. Alert.
"Probably nothing," Zero says, dismissive.
I force myself to keep moving. Slower now. Both hands on the railing. Testing each step before I put my weight on it.
I reach the bottom.
My legs are shaking. My hands are shaking. My vision is shaking. Everything fractures and reforms with each blink. Everything is shaking.
The dining room is to my left. I can see them through the corner of my eye. Shapes. Shadows. Brothers who aren't really brothers at all.
They're all clustered at one end of the long table. Atlas at the head of the table, commanding even while eating. Zero to his right, sprawled in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. Bane on his left, stiff and formal despite the casual setting.
Their territory. Their space.
I'm the intruder. The infection. The thing that doesn't belong.
They all look up when I appear in the foyer.
"Max," Atlas says.
I look up. He's watching me. Those gray eyes sharp. Assessing.
Even now—even when I can barely stand—he looks like he's analyzing me. Calculating. Trying to figure out if I'm worth the trouble.
His voice is clipped when he speaks. "Do you want to join us?"
The words sound like they cost him. Like he's forcing them out because it's what a good stepbrother would do. What Richard and Margot would expect.
Not because he wants me there.
I shake my head.
Big mistake.
The room spins. The brothers multiply. Two Atlases watching me with those calculating eyes. Two Zeros with matching smirks. Two Banes looking cold and untouchable.
I blink hard. Once. Twice.
They merge back into one.
Barely.
"I'm fine," I say.
My voice sounds like it's coming from underwater. Distant. Distorted. Like someone else is speaking through my mouth. Like I'm a puppet and the strings are fraying.
I turn toward the kitchen.
Focus. Just focus.
One foot in front of the other.
The floor moves beneath me. Shifts. Ripples like water. Like I'm walking on liquid instead of solid ground. Like I'm on a boat in rough water.
I take a step.
My knee buckles.
I sway and my knees hit the hardwood. The impact jolts up my thighs. My palms slap against the floor, catching myself.
The impact jolts through me. Pain, but distant. Like it's happening to someone else. Like I'm watching this happen from above. Like I've already left my body and this is just the afterimage.
Fuck.
Behind me, a chair scrapes. Sharp. Sudden.
"Max?" Atlas's voice. Closer now.
"Don't touch me," I manage.
The words slur. Just slightly. My tongue is too thick. My mouth won't form the shapes right.
I push myself up. My arms shake with the effort. Everything shakes.
I stumble forward. Into the kitchen. The tile is colder than the hardwood. Smoother. My feet slip slightly.
The counter is right there. I grab the edge. Hold on.
The pill bottle sits where I saw it the other morning. Right in front of the coffee maker.
White plastic. Red cap.
Safety.
Salvation.
I reach for it.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely grip it. The bottle trembles in my palm.
I unscrew the cap. It takes three tries.
Two pills tumble out. They rattle onto the counter.
I try to pick them up.
My fingers won't cooperate. They're numb. Clumsy. Like they belong to someone else. Like I'm wearing gloves made of cotton and trying to thread a needle.
I lift them to my mouth—
My legs give out.
Not slowly. Not a gradual weakening.
Just—gone. Like someone cut the strings. Like gravity remembered I exist and decided to collect.
One second I'm standing. The next I'm falling.
I hit the tile.
Hard.
The impact knocks the air from my lungs. My shoulder cracks against the floor. My hip. My ribs. Everything at once. The pills scatter. I hear them skitter across the floor—tiny sounds, too loud in the sudden silence.
My cheek is pressed against the cold tile. It feels good against my burning skin.
Maybe I'll just stay here.
Maybe this is where I belong. On the ground. In the dirt. Where people like me always end up.
Footsteps.
Multiple sets. Running. Heavy. Fast. Getting closer.
Voices above me. Distorted. Echo-y. Like I'm at the bottom of a well and they're shouting down.
"Shit." Bane's voice. "He's really pale."
I try to respond. Try to tell him to fuck off. That I don't need his fake concern. That I don't need anything from any of them.
Nothing comes out. My mouth moves but no sound emerges. Just breath. Just air.
"What the fuck do we do?" Zero. He sounds—what? Panicked? No. Zero doesn't panic.
Unsettled, maybe.
Uncertain. A predator encountering something it can't identify. Can't categorize. Can't kill.
"Move." Atlas.
Hands slide under my arms. Lifting.
Strong hands. Steady.
I try to fight it. Try to push away. My arms are so heavy. They won't move the way I want them to.
Don't touch me.
The words stay trapped in my head.
I don't need your help.
But the words won't come. Won't form. Won't escape. They bounce around inside my skull with nowhere to go.
The world is muffled now. Cotton in my ears. Water in my lungs. Sounds distorted and far away. Like I'm underwater again. Drowning in slow motion.
I'm being lifted. Weightless. Floating. My feet leave the ground and I'm airborne. Cradled against someone's chest.
Atlas.
I can smell him. Cedar and leather and expensive bourbon. The scent that I've been trying to avoid for two weeks.
It fills my lungs. Makes my head spin worse.
Makes something deep inside me react. Respond. Wake up.
No. No no no—
Vision blurred. Shapes moving around me. Three figures. Shadows.
I blink. Try to focus.
The ceiling passes overhead. White. Blurred.
I'm being carried somewhere.
Where?
Does it matter?
Atlas's arms around me. Solid. Sure. Holding me like I weigh nothing. Like I'm precious. Like I'm—
No. I'm not. I'm nothing. Bane said so. They all know it.
Put me down.
I don't need you.
Just let me die.
The thought drifts through my mind, lazy and detached.
Would that be so bad? Just closing my eyes and not waking up?
At least then I wouldn't have to deal with this. With them. With the fact that soon, I'm going to go into heat and everyone will know exactly what I am.
Exactly how broken I am.
But I can't say it.
Can't say anything.
The darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision. Soft and welcoming. Gentle. Kind. The first kind thing I've felt in days. Black and soft and welcoming.
I let it come.
And then—
Nothing.