51. Fifty-One

Fifty-One

“Get up,” Ata said sharply as she snatched the blanket off of Wren.

The stench of alcohol, body odor, and stale tobacco leaves wafted through the doorway where Pri and I stood as Ata threw the blanket across the small study in Pri’s cottage home.

Wren was laying on the cramped daybed where, according to Pri, he had started sleeping when she expressed her distaste for the smell of him when he staggered home inebriated in the middle of the night.

Ata stomped to the window, throwing open the yellow curtains and unlatching the glass to let out the rancid air. Books and maps were scattered around the room as weapons of all shapes and sizes hung from the wall. One wall was plastered with notes and texts from research Pri had done on the assignments she was given.

Wren groaned, covering his face to block out the morning sun.

“Your week is up,” Ata said sternly as she handed him a glass of water. “We have had a week of destroying ourselves and living in guilt. No one has tried to stop us and no one bothered us, but our time is up.”

He glared at her as he sipped the water down. She glared right back.

Pri’s brows were pulled tight as she watched him, studied him, from the small arched doorway.

Dark circles surrounded his bloodshot eyes that stood out against his grayish complexion. I squeezed Pri’s hand before stepping into the room with Ata.

“Well, don’t you look ravishing?” I said, tilting my head and flashing a smirk in his direction. Wren scoffed at me, falling back onto the bed and dragging his hands over his face.

“Get out,” he said, his voice a low rumble, a warning.

“I made you—”

“Not now, Pri,” Wren hissed, cutting her off.

Ata’s spark came roaring back with a raging fury. With cat-like speed she jerked him upright by his collar and slapped him across the face with her free hand.

“You do not speak to her like that,” Ata growled, her eyes tearing into Wren—daring him to speak again.

“Your brother is dead, her best friend is dead.” She extended a finger to me, not pulling her eyes from Wren. “The love of my life is dead .” Ata spit the word out like she was expelling poison from her body. “We all feel the grief and the pain and the ruin losing him has caused, but how dare you . . . how dare you defile his memory—his essence—by disrespecting the only family you have left; by disrespecting the woman who wants nothing more than to be your foundation, while you rebuild yours.” Ata paused, the hard lines of her face smoothing.

Her voice softened as she said, “This pain will kill us if we let it; will rot us from the insides out. I don’t know if I will ever heal enough to hear his name and not crumble into a million pieces, but I am going to try. Ardan would want us to try.”

Wren didn’t say anything as she turned her back to him and ushered us out of the crowded space.

Ata turned back to him before her fingers wrapped tight around the door’s handle. “I intend to make The Silliands suffer for what they have taken from us. So, take a minute, then clean yourself up and come to breakfast. We have work to do,” she said, then closed the door behind her.

Wren sauntered into the kitchen of Pri’s cottage home with clean clothes and freshly washed hair as Ata and I excused ourselves to the courtyard. It was beautiful here.

Pri’s quiet country cottage was tucked into giant trees, with moss and flora hanging from their branches. A soft breeze rustled through the leaves and I took a deep breath.

Glancing through the small window above the sink that had vines growing through the stone, I watched as Pri cupped Wren’s face. I turned away with a small smile on my face, feeling that tiny spark of hope inside me burn a little brighter.

We might just make it through this together.

I wrapped my arm around Ata’s shoulders, squeezing softly as I said, “Gods you’re a bitch.”

A grin broke across her beautiful crimson lips and my breath caught in my throat at the sight of it.

I hadn’t seen that smile in so long.

And then, she threw her head back . . . and laughed.