Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
His arm tears off my collarbones.
It hurts.
I can feel the air slice painfully, and I struggle to even look him in the eyes. I glance over at my best friend, and Maximoff shakes his head with a wince. Feeling my unease, possibly.
Farrow is eyeing Thatcher, then me. I think he sees a strain that my leech-insecurities just created.
“Jane?” Thatcher says.
I clear a pained knot in my throat. “I hate that we’re forcing my brother to join us.” I adjust the strap of my fuzzy mint-green purse, the unusual contents inside weighing on me. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this.” But none of us could formulate a better solution.
Silence thickens, the floor-numbers still increasing.
I finally look up at Thatcher.
He rubs his mouth, brows knitted. “Do you not want us to be here?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Not at all.”
“Do you not want me to be here then?”
“No,” I emphasize, my stomach lurching. “You have no idea how much…” I exhale, my pulse hiking to devastating speeds. “…how many times it’s dawned on me and overwhelmed me—that Moffy and I have fallen for two men who fight to help us protect who we love.” My eyes burn. “Not just half-heartedly or out of loyalty to us, but because you deeply love our siblings and cousins. And if we weren’t here, you’d still fight for them as deeply as we would, and that is priceless to me.”
I love him.
Say it, Jane.
His eyes cradle mine, offering comfort from afar. His chest rises in deeper breath.
I open my mouth. “I—”
Ding.
The elevator doors slide open. We’ve arrived.
* * *
“Try not to wake Eliot and Tom,” Charlie whispers, letting us inside the lavish and sleek apartment. Dark, no lamps or lights turned on, I skulk ahead of everyone and reach Beckett’s bedroom.
I tie my wavy hair back with a velvet scrunchie.
Don’t let up.
Confidence.
I pull back my shoulders and gently open the door. Quiet, I tiptoe on the dark hardwood and into the cleanest, most organized space. Books sit in neat rows on a polished shelf, pencils perfectly lined on a desk, and a fern is situated in the precise corner, near ironed curtains where navy fabric is pleated in straight lines.
Beckett sleeps soundlessly beneath a tucked-in, blue comforter. He holds the pillow beneath his head, colorful floral tattoos sprawling down his right arm. Donnelly inked every single one of Beckett’s tattoos, and all are flowers from roses to daisies to lilies and poppies, as homage to our mom and aunts.
It reminds me that he loves our family so greatly, despite having such little time to spend with us.
I walk closer to the bed. He looks peaceful.
And I hate to wake him. But I must.
“Beckett,” I whisper. “Beckett.” I reach the bed and lightly jostle his arm.
He jolts and flinches, eyes snapping open. But he instantly relaxes when he sees me. “Sis,” he exhales, rubbing his tired face. “What are you doing here?”
“You’re coming with us, little brother,” I remind him.
Horror freezes him, eyes like saucers. “No.” He notices Thatcher, Farrow, Moffy, and Charlie filling the bedroom, then his head whips back to me. “No. Jane, I told you I can’t go—”
“And I told you that if you used, we’d force you.”
“You can’t.” He uses his elbow to prop himself up.
“Are you naked?” I ask.
His face scrunches like what the fuck. “No—”
I fling the comforter off his body.
“Jane.” He’s just dressed in gray Calvin Klein underwear. And for his privacy, I keep my gaze above his neck, thank you very much.
“Get up. Get dressed. Pack a bag. Let’s go. You have an hour.” I perch my hands on my wide hips. Please, Beckett, make this easy.
He glares. “I’m not goin—”
Charlie flicks on the lights.
Beckett squints, hand shielding his eyes. “I’m twenty-one. I control my life, and all five of you need to get the fuck out of my room.”
None of us move a muscle. No one speaks.
Beckett lies back down, smoothly like silk resting on an idle lake. Even in his anger, he’s graceful.
I peek over my shoulder. “Thatcher.”
My boyfriend rips the rest of the bedding off, piling sheets and the comforter on the floor. Farrow comes closer and snatches the pillows, dumping them too. Charlie rolls in a suitcase, and Maximoff is careful with Beckett’s clothes as he opens each drawer. He tries to maintain the crisp shape of each folded item.
They pack his things.
Slowly, Beckett sits up against the headboard, aghast. He rests his elbows on his bent knees, fingers interlaced on his neck. Staring down at the bare mattress. If I pushed him over, he’d be in a fetal position, and it makes me terribly sad.
“Beckett, please,” I whisper. “We just want to help you.”
He pushes back curlier strands of his hair. “You’re hurting me.” His eyes are raw and red.
“I’m sorry.” I am.