17. Ava

"No, no, no…"I mutter under my breath, throwing my whole body weight into the plush cushion to my left, as if I can somehow control the tiny little man on the screen with my movements.

"To the left, the left!" Tyler, practically vibrating with energy, bounces beside me, his excitement palpable. I only catch a glimpse of his antics out of the corner of my eye. I'm way too wrapped up in dodging virtual death traps.

Just when I manage to maneuver past a particularly nasty set of red lasers, dropping three feet to avoid being zapped, Tyler lets out this high-pitched squeal that's half terror, half thrill.

"Got it," I puff out, a wave of relief flooding me as I finally clear those sneaky statues that seem hell-bent on my demise.

"You did it!" Tyler's up now, literally jumping for joy on the couch. His hair's all over the place, sticking out like he's been in a brawl with a wind machine. Total Viking vibes, I swear.

Or maybe a lion. I keep that one to myself.

"What are you two doing?" That deep, sudden voice nearly makes me jump out of my skin.

Twisting around, I spot Ethan, Tyler's older brother, just behind the couch, looking like he just stepped out of a brooding male model catalogue. His arms are crossed, his muscles bulging, and there's this snarl on his face that could scare a bear. Assuming Ethan and Tyler share features is a stretch, until you notice the little things, like the way their noses tilt or how their lips curve, but while Ethan is rugged and broad, Tyler's like a sleek panther, his muscles defined, and everything about him screams swimmer's build. Plus, their personalities couldn't be more opposite if they tried.

"Just showing Ava the magic of Zelda," Tyler replies, like we're discussing the most normal thing in the world.

"And that required turning the living room into a frat house?" Ethan's gaze roams the chaos we've unleashed, snack warfare on full display.

I follow his stare and cringe. The room's a mess, with candy wrappers, soda cans, and the remains of our snack fest strewn about. Catching the time on the clock, I blink. It's dark outside, and we've somehow fast-forwarded to nearly six in the evening. It hits me—I haven't been this lost in the moment in ages, where all my worries just evaporate.

"Well, it was game day," Tyler retorts like that explains the mess.

"Clean up," Ethan orders, turning to stomp off, probably to brood or lift weights…or brood while lifting weights.

Tyler shoots me a look, his eyebrows raised. "Looks like we ticked off the alpha," he whispers, trying to stifle a laugh.

"Seems like it," I whisper back, biting my lip to keep from laughing out loud.

"I can still hear you!" Ethan's voice booms from the garage, making both of us jump.

As Tyler gets to his feet, his earlier excitement now channeled into cleaning duty, I stifle a yawn. "Let me help," I offer, trying to push myself up.

"Don't bother," Tyler starts, but Ethan's growl from the other room cuts him off. That man could intimidate a statue, I swear.

"No, really. I need to stretch. My butt's numb from sitting too long," I argue, feeling every bit of the stiffness in my limbs. Tyler drops what he's doing and rushes to grab my crutches. Sometimes, I think he's like a puppy—easily distracted but always eager to help.

Getting up, I let my feet hit the floor, immediately feeling the throb in my bad leg as blood flow returns. I can't help but feel grateful for today. Hours flew by in what felt like minutes, filled with laughter and the kind of fun that makes you forget the world outside. It's been forever since I've felt this carefree and happy.

"I smell blood." Ethan crashes back into the house, his voice slicing through the calm. He tosses something metallic onto the island, the sound clanging loudly, before his intense gaze locks onto me. "You're bleeding."

"Huh?" I blink, feeling a touch of embarrassment. Did my period just ninja its way into this situation? I sneak a peek at the couch, half expecting to find a crime scene, but nope, it's just as pristine as ever.

"Your leg." Ethan circles the couch with the focus of a hawk, his eyes darkening as they land on my bandaged leg. "Fuck, you're bleeding."

"Huh?" I echo, my brain on a temporary vacation. Words? What are those? Yep, the bandage looks like it's thrown in the towel, soaked through. "Uh-oh." Just acknowledging there is blood makes my head spin. "Going down." I barely get the words out before my body tilts to one side.

Ethan's on me in a flash, scooping me up with a grunt. He's all grumbles and muffled curses as he holds me close, completely ignoring the fact that I'm probably ruining his shirt with my blood.

"What happened?" Tyler rushes after us, the crutches forgotten on the floor.

"My guess?" Ethan carries me upstairs with a determination that would be impressive if I weren't feeling like a damsel in distress all the darn time. The scent of him—pine and a hint of something spicy—wraps around me, and it's oddly comforting. "She sat too long. Probably popped a stitch."

"Rest. Don't rest," I quip, trying to lighten the mood. "What a catch-22."

Ethan actually snorts as he gently sets me down on the most comfortable couch. It's like something out of a luxury catalog—all plush cushions and soft microfiber fabric. "Don't move." He disappears into a walk-in closet that's practically a room of its own, leaving me wondering just how many supplies one needs for a minor medical emergency.

They are paramedics.

Without warning or concern for my clothing, Tyler digs a finger into my jeans and rips them open, right where the wound is.

"What the hell?" I shriek.

"Not sorry." Tyler's hands are gentle as he starts to deal with the bandage. "We should have checked this first thing," he mutters, more to himself than me, his brow furrowed in self-reproach. "I'm sorry. You should have been our priority."

"Yes, you should have," Ethan agrees, emerging like a magician with a bright red tote in hand. Mr. Prepared, apparently.

"Stop," I insert, my patience thinning. "Seriously, I'm not some porcelain doll. Besides, my mental health is just as much of a priority as my physical. And Tyler helped with the latter today."

Tyler gives me a slight smile, while Ethan's nostrils flare.

"Popped three," Tyler announces, holding up the bandage like it's a trophy. I, on the other hand, am trying not to look, because my stomach is starting to turn a little. The ceiling suddenly becomes the most interesting thing in the room. Focus on the ceiling, not the… I swallow my nausea.

"How are you a vet?" Ethan teases, a smile playing on his lips as he sets the tote down beside me.

"Easy. Animals are chill. It's humans who are high-maintenance." I keep my gaze firmly away from any blood. "I don't do human ick."

"I need to fix this. Stay," Ethan orders, sounding every bit the authoritative figure he loves to be before he and Tyler head off to clean up.

"I'm not a dog," I mutter under my breath. Suddenly, I feel a tad guilty for every time I've used that tone with my furry patients.

"No, you're just stubborn," Ethan retorts, his voice filled with that familiar blend of annoyance and affection. Honestly, does the guy have any other setting than snark?

"All I did was stand!" I protest, defending my honor. "And for the record, I was just following the doc's orders. Brody's, to be exact."

"At least you can follow orders," Ethan mumbles, almost too low for me to catch.

"How dare you?" I prop myself up, ready for battle, indignation fueling my fire, but then Tyler reappears, all grins and mischief.

"You know what? I'm on dinner duty. Enjoy your little spat."

I shoot daggers at his retreating back. "Don't you dare leave me with Mr. Grumpy."

Silence. He's already bailed.

"Tyler!" My shout echoes, useless and ignored. He's gone, abandoning me to face a grumpy Ethan.

And the man in question? He's kneeling by the couch with a look that says he's about to do something utterly practical yet annoying. How dare he come at me with logic.

"I need you to turn around," he instructs.

"You're the one who parked me here," I snap back, because if I'm going down, I'm going down swinging.

He rolls his eyes, lifts me with a huff, and repositions me with less gentleness than I'd like. There goes my dignity, bleeding out along with whatever sense of calm I had left.

This time, the tears are real as frustration, pain, and a dash of self-pity overwhelm me. "This is not how I planned my day."

"Fuck." Ethan's voice is thick with regret as he falls to his knees in front of the couch. His eyes swirl with apology, and his thumb tenderly chases away my tears. "I'm sorry, Ava. I've been an ass, and you don't deserve that."

"You got that right—I don't." I sniffle as his hands cradle my face, wiping the tears as if he's trying to erase the hurt. One minute, he's rough and brooding, and the next, he's this tender, possessive male. I can't grasp the real Ethan under the rough exterior. "It stings a bit, you know."

He mutters a curse so softly, it almost gets lost in the moment. He's so close that I catch the hint of peanuts on his breath, a weirdly comforting detail, and I can see a sea of regret in his gaze. "Hurting you was the last thing I wanted. I just got…frustrated."

"At my leg?" I can't help but let a spark of anger flicker through me, but pushing against his chest feels like trying to move a mountain with a breeze.

"How about we strike a deal?" he offers, catching me off guard. His thumbs keep up their gentle assault on my tears, steadfast in their mission, and he doesn't back down, even as a hint of a smile plays on his lips at my feisty attempts to push him away.

I scrunch up my face skeptically. "What kind of deal?"

That almost smile flickers again, barely there but noticeable. "Get better," he says with such a straight face, I almost laugh, "get healthy, and let me show you how to knock me on my ass, how to take down a wolf."

I hum, pretending to weigh his words. "You drive a hard bargain."

"I tend to," he admits with a smirk.

"And what's in it for you?" I probe, curious despite myself.

His look cuts right through me, intense and unwavering. "Time with you," he says, and damn if it doesn't sound genuinely sweet. "On your back."

"Almost had me there," I say, holding up my fingers a whisper apart. "You were this close."

"Yeah, but I managed to distract you, didn't I?" He finally drops his hands and leans back, a trace of victory in his stance. "Ready now?"

"Nope," I reply, stubbornly avoiding glancing at my leg. Just the thought of it sends twinges of pain shooting through me.

"Too bad," he says, reaching for a pair of gloves and slipping them on with a snap that sounds way too final. "Time to get comfy. First order of business, these pants have to go."

"Could you make it sound any less sexy?" I complain, hooking my thumbs into the waistband with mock indignation.

"Would you prefer it if I cut them the rest of the way off?" he asks, suddenly more paramedic than flirt.

Rolling my eyes, I start to shimmy them down, revealing panties that have seen better days. Maybe I can save the hole with a patch. When I get halfway, he efficiently helps, stripping them off the rest of the way with a decisiveness that leaves no room for embarrassment.

"Will you keep talking to me?" I settle in, resting my head on the arm of the couch and staring up at the ceiling fan as it lazily circulates the air.

"Tell me about your favorite memory," he prompts, his touch cautious on my skin.

"My favorite memory," I echo, letting out a sigh as I mentally sift through the highlight reel of my life.

Memories flutter like snapshots in fast-forward—childhood laughter, teenage angst, and everything in between—but one shines brighter. "My mama," I start, the mere thought wrapping me in nostalgia.

"What about her?" His voice is a steady, calm presence as he preps for whatever comes next.

"Every Sunday after church, she'd take me to this tiny ice-cream shop," I reminisce, the corners of my mouth lifting at the memory. "Right on the corner of two bustling streets in downtown Mystic Falls, smack dab between human and spiritkin territories."

"Sounds like a risky spot for an ice-cream shop," Ethan comments offhandedly, rummaging through his tote of medical supplies.

"I think that's the big draw for me," I say, letting the memories wash over me. "Merger Ave was my favorite place to visit. With the food trucks, and the markets, and the lines between human, spiritkin, fae, and witch all blurring."

"Merger Ave." He chuckles quietly, the sound warming the chilly air between us. "The place where humans and spiritkin kind of just…melt into each other."

"It was magical," I reply, clinging to the sentiment.

"It still is," he asserts, a note of defiance in his voice.

"Touché." I can't help but crack a smile, despite the somber mood.

"Have you ever gone back?" His probing feels intense. "To the ice-cream shop?"

"No." I sigh heavily as he sets about cleaning my wound—a distraction I'm not sure I'm grateful for. "Not since my mama passed. We used to meet there, right up until the end, and when I was off at college, she'd still go, and I'd find some local spot so we could talk over video chat."

"Your mom passed?" He stops for a moment, and I feel his gaze on me. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too." I sneak a peek at him, letting just a sliver of vulnerability show before shutting it down again. "She was everything…magical, but trapped in a world of expectations, playing a part whenever my dad was around. With me, though, she was real." I can't help the bitterness that creeps into my voice—a silent accusation against my dad.

"I've always had a soft spot for Merger Ave too," Ethan says, breaking the silence that follows, his voice a balm to my raw emotions. "I know the shop you're talking about. It's right across from that terribly named groomers."

I let out a snort. "Terrible, indeed." Muffin Chops.

"I had to be there like clockwork, every month. Dad's orders—to always look the part," he grumbles, a hint of old resentment surfacing in his tone.

"You and Tyler seem so alike and yet so different," I comment, eager to steer away from my own past. "Seems like you were raised by entirely different folks."

"In a way, we were," he admits, a shadow passing over his features. "Clan life… It's complex. Zane took Tyler under his wing, while I was groomed by my father. They couldn't be more different. Zane was all about sneaky ice-cream trips, while Dad was… Well, he had us practicing how to take down a hunter by age five."

Just like that, he reveals a childhood that sounds more like boot camp than anything else. "And your mom?"

"Lunas are…" He pauses, searching for the right words. "A world unto themselves."

"It sounds like being married to a preacher, or women like my mom, who married a man heavily influenced by the church," I reflect, a wave of sadness washing over me. "Always on display, expected to be flawless, a paragon of virtue and grace."

"That's hitting the nail on the head," he says a bit more vigorously as he goes back to cleaning my wound. I bite my tongue, fighting back a yelp. "She had to play her role within the clan and then be someone totally different in private. I couldn't stand it. Dad's all about the old ways."

"What does that even mean?" I ask, curiosity piqued, even through the discomfort.

"He's convinced that spiritkin are just…superior, but he's careful not to tick off the spirit comet." His tone darkens. "Crossing the spirit comet means losing our human disguise. He's a firm believer that we should have stayed hidden, using the hunters as his Exhibit A."

"Playing devil's advocate here," I venture, pushing past his initial scoff. "Was he onto something?"

"Hunters have always been lurking around, long before we stepped into the light," he explains, his voice taking on a distant quality as he finishes up with my wound. "They come from a lineage so deeply hidden, their true name remains a mystery. Back in the day, their craft was passed down from father to son."

"How very misogynistic," I scoff.

"Well, women were the bargaining chips, married off into power and wealth to pop out the next generation," he adds, his disdain for the practice clear as day.

"Chattel," I murmur, the word resonating deep within, sparking a fierce mix of anger and empathy.

"Yes." Ethan pauses, a hint of reluctance flickering across his features, like he's about to pull a thorn from a lion's paw. "This is going to sting." I inhale deeply, steeling myself against the anticipation of pain. "Breathe in and exhale."

As the air whooshes out of me, a sharp pinch ignites a fire under my skin, potent enough to coax involuntary tears from my eyes. "Fun Dip. Fun Dip. Fun Dip," I chant under my breath, turning my agony into a bizarre, candy-coated mantra, as if sweet thoughts could somehow sugarcoat the sting.

"It should start feeling numb now," he murmurs, his focus on the intricate dance of the needle piercing my skin. "So, you're a preacher's daughter, huh?" The tease in his tone is like a flicker of light in the dim room, a spark of humor amidst the tension.

"Yes, no," I gasp out as another wave of pain briefly crashes over me, then recedes, leaving me to catch my breath in its wake. Sneaking a quick glance at Ethan, I catch him in a moment of intense concentration, a slight furrow of concern between his brows. I redirect my gaze to the ceiling, its blank expanse offering a stark canvas to my swirling thoughts. Talking about myself feels like walking through a minefield, but his undivided attention makes the words spill from me. "My dad is deep in the Puritas way of life. I once thought he was a preacher, and he's given sermons before, but he isn't. He's more of an overlord. It's strange… He's almost a nobody, and yet when we'd go to meetings, everyone knew him."

He halts, the needle pausing midair, as if suspended by the weight of my words, before carefully disposing of it in a red biohazard bin. "Puritas?" The word seems to hang heavily between us, shadowed with worry and an unspoken question in his eyes.

That's the bombshell effect I dread. Dropping life-altering revelations feels like a twisted talent of mine. "Yeah," I whisper, the confession feeling like a key turning in a lock I didn't know I had. "It took me years to piece together the puzzle of him and everyone knowing him." Sometimes, I feel like I still have those rose-colored glasses on.

He nods, the gesture stiff with the gravity of my admission. It's a strange kinship, understanding someone's world can shatter with just a few words.

As he resumes his work, I let my eyes drift shut, emboldened by the darkness to reveal more of my soul's scars. "My mama's been gone," I admit, the words as heavy as stones in my mouth, "for five years now."

His touch remains gentle yet firm. "Just a bit longer, and it'll take full effect, then I'll swap out these sutures."

"Okay." My eyelids remain closed, a veil between me and looking Ethan in the eyes as I talk. "Curiosity got the better of me two years back. I hired a PI to dig into her death. She was found in a place that made no sense, out by Merger Ave. That night, she was acting off, and suddenly, my childhood made no sense at all."

The sound of him preparing the instruments for the next step fills the brief silence, a clatter of plastic and metal that somehow sounds like the ticking of a clock.

"I needed you to hear this from me first. That PI laid out my life in a folder, drawing lines straight back to Puritas. Suddenly, the way we lived, why my mom changed—it all snapped into focus." I admit to him.

"That's a lot to sift through," he comments, checking the numbness. "Feel anything?"

"Nope," I reply, a thread of relief weaving through my tension. "We lived in a bubble. We didn't have TV, and going to public school felt like a victory, but by then, Mama was too far gone, swallowed by the church's shadow."

"How so?" Ethan's inquiry slices through the tension, his brows knitting together in concern as he leans in, the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows across his face.

"It didn't hit me like a revelation, more like a creeping fog. Her laughter, once bright and infectious, started to fade into a rare, muted echo. She masked it well, but her eyes… They held stories of silent battles, shadowed with a melancholy she fought to hide. I buried myself in after-school activities—a desperate attempt to escape being smothered by the gloom that settled over our home…" I confess, my voice trailing off as I get lost in the memories that hang between us like thick smoke.

"Why avoid her? Maybe she needed you just as much." His curiosity isn't accusatory, just tinged with a genuine desire to understand.

A shrug lifts my shoulders. "Deep down, there was this gnawing feeling, like wearing a scratchy sweater that you can't take off. Something felt off, and I couldn't shake it. But I couldn't face it either."

He nods, his acknowledgment sending a ripple through the air, a silent salute to my younger self's intuition. "That's pretty insightful of you."

"The sermons were just background noise, honestly. My trusty first-gen iPod was my tiny act of defiance. Hidden under layers of hair, my earbuds were my escape hatch, probably sparing me years of therapy," I scoff, a brief spark of rebellious pride flickering in my eyes.

"But that also kept you in the dark," he adds softly, his gaze not leaving mine, as if trying to read the chapters of my life that I never voiced out loud. "How did they find your mom?" His question is gentle, cautious, as if he's afraid of unraveling me with just his words.

"Mauled," I say, forcing detachment into my voice, as if I'm discussing a character from a book rather than my own mother. The room seems to close in, the walls absorbing my confession.

"That's…peculiar," he muses, his voice a blend of confusion and concern. "Vampire, spiritkin, or human? What did they decide the cause of death was?"

"Spiritkin," I mutter, the absurdity of the situation wrapping around us like a thick fog. "Everything happened so damn fast. The autopsy. The police report. Dad bulldozed through her cremation before any real questions could be asked. Or answered."

"That raises a ton of red flags," he observes, his hands pausing in their meticulous work as the seriousness of his expression reflects the gravity of my words.

"And now you've stumbled into my labyrinth of secrets. I grew up under the shadow of the Puritas Umbra." I attempt to sprinkle some levity into the darkness of the revelation, but it feels like throwing confetti into a void.

"And yet, you emerged more than just intact." His eyes lock on mine, and I see a warmth there that feels like a beacon in the night.

The smile I muster up feels brittle. "I'd like to think so," I whisper, a wave of vulnerability crashing over me, leaving me exposed under his steady gaze.

He returns to his task, the silence wrapping around us like a blanket. I'm suddenly aware of the gentle rhythm of his work, the careful stitches that put me back together, just like Humpty Dumpty. A bubble of safety envelops me, allowing my mind to drift toward rest. The sensation of being stitched back together, both physically and metaphorically, by Ethan's skilled hands lulls me into a sense of peace I haven't felt in ages. In his arms, I feel like the world and my worries can just fade away.

Until the dreams begin, and those skillful fingers are tending to me in other ways.