Chapter 20
twenty
JULIAN
I stood in the center of the kitchen, watching the steam rise from a pot of salt water.
This was my sanctuary, the only room in Hollow Vale that felt like it belonged to me.
Rowan was leaning against the counter, his massive frame making the apartment look like a dollhouse, while he watched me chop garlic.
It was the first time we'd all been here together, really together, and the air didn't feel thin for once.
It felt crowded. In a way that made my chest tighten with a strange, terrifying heat.
"Don't look so worried, Julian," Theo said, breezing through the door with two bottles of wine tucked under his arm like they were prizes he'd won at a fair.
He set them down on the table, the glass clinking with a cheerful, domestic sound that felt almost blasphemous in this town.
"I brought the expensive stuff. If we're going to play house, we're going to do it with a high alcohol content. "
Rowan didn't move, but his gaze shifted to the doorway, tracking the last arrival. Oleander stepped into the room and the rhythm of the space faltered. He stood in the doorway with his shoulders pulled up to his ears, apologizing for existing without saying a word.
"I didn't know what to bring," Oleander murmured, his voice barely carrying over the hum of the stove. He looked at the wine, then at the spread of ingredients on the counter. "I'm sorry. I should have..."
Theo snorted, stepping into Oleander's space and plucking the scarf from around his neck before he could protest. "You brought yourself, Voss. That's insufferable enough for one evening."
Then Rowan let out a low, huffing sound that might have been a laugh, and the tension broke.
I felt my own mouth twitch. Oleander blinked, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he realized he wasn't being scolded.
He laughed, a soft, breathless sound that made the kitchen feel five degrees warmer, and just like that, the shadows in the corners seemed to retreat.
"Sit," I said, gesturing toward the table with a wooden spoon. "If you're going to be insufferable, you might as well do it while being fed. Rowan, stop brooding and open the wine. Theo, quit stealing the bread."
The dinner was a blur of motion and sound that I catalogued like a new piece of music.
I watched Rowan pass a plate to me without looking, his hand brushing mine in a gesture so practiced it was practically instinct.
Across the table, Theo was leaning over, his fork darting into my pasta to steal a piece of pancetta while he told a story about a sinking foundation on the East Side.
He did it with a grin that said he knew he was being a brat, and I let him, because the way he leaned into my space felt like an anchor.
I caught Oleander watching us. He wasn't eating much.
He was just observing, his gaze moving between the three of us with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.
It was the ache of someone who had lived in a house of mirrors for too long and had finally found a window.
He was memorizing us, trying to find where he might fit into the lines.
Rowan must have felt the weight of that stare, because he reached out and clamped a hand on the back of Theo's neck, pulling him into a mock headlock that made Theo squawk and nearly spill his wine.
As Theo laughed and tried to elbow him in the ribs, Rowan's grip softened.
His fingers slid into Theo's hair, his palm cupping the base of his skull with a tenderness that was almost painful to witness.
Rowan looked up, catching Oleander's eye, and held the gaze until Oleander had to look away, a flush creeping up his throat.
"You're going to give him a concussion, Rowan," I said, though there was no heat in it.
I picked up the empty plates, feeling the hum of the wine in my blood.
The room felt light. For the first time since Oleander had arrived in this town, the air didn't taste like grief.
It tasted like garlic and cheap red wine and the specific, salt-skin scent of the people I loved.
We migrated to the living room after the wine was gone, the lights dimmed to a low, amber glow.
There weren't enough chairs for everyone to be comfortable, so we ended up on the floor, a tangle of limbs and cushions against the sofa.
The conversation slowed, the sharp edges of Theo's banter softening into a low, comfortable murmur.
I felt Rowan shift behind me, his chest a solid wall against my back, his arm draped over my shoulder.
Theo was sitting cross-legged in front of me, his camera for once forgotten on the coffee table.
He was looking at me with a strange intensity, his head tilted to the side.
He reached out, his fingers tracing the gold chain around my neck before sliding upward to cup my jaw.
His thumb brushed my lower lip, a slow, deliberate movement that made my breath catch.
I looked at him, really looked at him, and realized that for all his noise and light, Theo was just as hungry for this as I was.
He leaned in, and the world narrowed down to the scent of the wine on his breath and the warmth of his skin.
He kissed me, a real, grounding press of his mouth against mine, the shock of the contact going all the way down to my toes.
I blinked when he pulled back, my vision slightly blurred.
I saw him smile, a small, private thing, before he turned his attention to Oleander, who was watching us with wide eyes.
Rowan didn't say anything, but I felt the shift in his body as he reached out with his free arm and pulled Oleander against his side, tucking him under his arm.
Oleander stiffened for a second before he went limp, melting into Rowan's strength like he'd been waiting his whole life for permission to stop standing.
We were all touching then, a circuit of skin and heat and shared breath that felt more intimate than any of the sex we'd had.
"You okay?" Rowan's voice was a low rumble that vibrated through my back and into Oleander's spine. He sounded different, softer, the jagged edges of his protector persona smoothed by the warmth of the room. He wasn't looking for a threat. He was just being.
Oleander nodded, his eyes half-closed. "Yeah," he whispered. "I think I'm okay." He reached out, his hand finding mine on the floor, his fingers curling around my palm. His skin was cool, but his grip was firm. I squeezed back, feeling a lump form in my throat that had nothing to do with the music.
Then the lights went out. One second the room was golden and warm, and the next, it was absolute black. The hum of the radiator died. The warmth seemed to drain out of the floorboards in a single, icy breath.
Rowan went rigid, his arm tightening around me. "Don't move," he said.
Beside me, Theo's breath was a series of quick, shallow hitches. We were all frozen, a knot of bodies in a darkness so thick it felt like it was pressing against our skin.
"Rowan?" Oleander's voice was thin, bordering on a sob.
I felt his hand jerk in mine, his fingers turning ice-cold.
"Rowan, something is..." He cut off with a sharp, choked gasp.
I heard a scuffle, the sound of fabric dragging against the floor, and then a heavy thud of a heel striking wood.
Oleander let out a muffled scream, his body twisting violently beside me.
I reached out blindly, my hand striking Rowan's shoulder before I found Oleander's leg.
He was kicking, his movements frantic. I felt a hand brush against my own.
Not Rowan's calloused palm, and not Theo's slender fingers.
This hand was freezing, the skin feeling like wet, cured leather, and it was wrapped firmly around Oleander's ankle, pulling him toward the center of the dark room.
Oleander kicked again, a guttural sound of terror tearing from his throat.
The hand tightened. I could hear the faint, sickening creak of his joint under the pressure.
I heard Rowan lunge across the floor, felt his hands close around Oleander's arms and wrench him backward.
Then, just as suddenly as it had arrived, the hand released.
The cold vanished and the lights surged back on, the amber glow feeling like a blow to my retinas.
We all squinted, blinking, our chests heaving.
Oleander was huddled against Rowan's chest, his face deathly pale, his eyes fixed on the empty floor where the hand had been.
Rowan had both arms wrapped around him, his jaw set so tight I thought his teeth might crack.
Theo was on his knees, his hands trembling so hard he had to clench them into fists.
No one spoke. We just sat there in the sudden light, breathing in the scent of ozone and the faint, lingering trail of Dominic's cologne.
The wine bottles were still on the table.
The pasta was cooling in the kitchen. The room looked exactly as it had five minutes ago, but the lightness was gone.
Oleander didn't look at us. He just stared at his ankle, where a faint, purplish bruise was already beginning to bloom against his skin in the shape of five long, thin fingers.
He reached down and pulled his sock up, covering the bruise.
He stood up, his movements stiff, and walked toward the window.
"He's not going to let me have this," Oleander said, his voice flat. He didn't turn around. He just stood there, a small silhouette against the vast, grey emptiness of the town outside. "He's not going to let any of us have this."