Chapter 42

Chapter Forty-Two

GREY

There are some wounds that are ripped open, like a rotten tree being torn by the root. Others are more insidiously spread, oozing into the bloodstream and killing someone in the night. Screams echoing through the house as loved ones find a body, cold and blue, breath snatched from its lungs.

And still there are other types of wounds.

Like Zane's injury.

Broken limbs, stomped hard until they snap. Given time to heal. Given the illusion of strength. Until one solid reminder brings the pain rushing back to the forefront.

Mom inflicted that kind of pain on Zane today.

And Jarod Cross did the same to Finn.

I know. I see it. The wound that makes Finn stomp out of the room is not a sudden, sharp cut of a blade. Neither is it a slow-burning invasion, gradually gnawing at his heart, lungs and brain.

His heart was already struck. It's been in a sling for many years.

"Freaking animal," Sol mumbles under his breath. He sits forward, elbows on his knees, legs spread apart. His head is bowed from the weight of his anger. "Freaking psychopath."

Dutch is clinging to Cadence for dear life. The lips that delivered Jarod Cross's message are trembling. He sucks them back into his mouth as if he wishes to erase them from his face. Burn the words from his tongue.

Zane's thumb has stopped rubbing my shoulder. He's trembling harder than I am now.

Silence suffocates us all.

Words feel pointless.

I watch the boys in the room, and a sigh chokes out like a fist in my throat. No matter what monsters and shadows I'm up against, at least they aren't my blood. At least I can hate them without prejudice.

Jarod Cross is their father. Their protector.

Yet, he inflicts the most damage, the worst damage.

Because these wounds are not the kind the eyes can see.

"I'm going after him," Zane says, blasting to his feet.

I snatch his hand, keeping him in place. "Let me."

"It should be one of us," Zane insists.

I keep my hold on his hand, my eyes drilling into his with a calm intensity. Slowly, his shoulders slump and he lifts my hand to his mouth. Giving the back of my wrist a firm, determined kiss followed by a squeeze, he lets me go.

I walk outside, and I'm surprised to find that Finn hasn't gone far. He's standing right by the conference room door, slumped over slightly as if his legs gave out and he couldn't convince them to keep running away. Or maybe it's that he didn't have anywhere to run to .

I stand beside him.

And when his legs give out completely and he sinks to his haunches, I do that too.

We sit in silence for a bit.

Finally, he scrubs a hand down his face and murmurs, "This is embarrassing."

"Not to compare burdens, but who's the one married to Zane, here? I don't think you have a leg to stand on."

His lips quirk.

"What?" I ask.

"He'll be so offended if he hears you say that."

"He'll get over it."

Finn leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. "Why'd they send you?"

"Because Sol is in there listing all the ways to get away with murder. Dutch doesn't know how to comfort anyone and Zane would end up saying something well-intentioned but very tone deaf."

"Like your opening joke?"

I meet his eyes. "Was that a warning to not make fun of your brother?"

Finn's ghost smile turns into a half smile. "They were right. This is less embarrassing." He sighs but still manages to inject a little levity in his voice when he adds, "You do know that Zane has a million followers all from posting cringy videos of himself shirtless online, right?"

"Ugh. Don't remind me. I'm just starting to get used to this ‘married to my stepbrother' thing."

The smile gets a little wider.

And then it putters out.

I let him work through whatever's on his mind, not pushing him. Not looking at him.

My patience is soon rewarded.

"What would you do if, for your entire life, everything you know has been a lie?" Finn asks hoarsely.

I glance at him and then at my scuffed black pumps. "I don't know. I think… I'd cling like hell to the crumbs of truth."

"Crumbs?"

"Every convincing lie has a grain of truth. I'd find that grain and I'd start rebuilding my life from there."

His lips tighten and he looks deep in thought.

We sit in silence for a bit more.

The air conditioner buzzes somewhere in the hotel.

Beside me, I feel Finn stiffening. His shoulders become more and more rigid with every second. It feels like he's building that brick wall around himself bit by bit, until it's fully erect again.

I let him, give him the space to do so. Sometimes, we need those defenses to keep moving until we find the time to heal. If we all walked around without ribs, without walls, we'd bleed too often. Our ribs, our defenses, the spikes that come out when we're hurt—they are necessary. It takes more than effort to tear them down. It takes trust, finding a safe place.

After a few minutes, Finn scrambles to his feet, his face regulated into its usual bland fashion. But just beneath the surface of his indifference, his eyes shine with gratitude.

One nod.

It's all he gives me.

It's all the thanks I need.

"You want to keep running away?" I ask, gesturing to the carpeted hallway. "I can make something up. Give you a head start."

Finn shakes his head and glances at the conference room door. "The crumbs are in there."

My heart balloons with warmth.

I twist the door knob. "After you."

Finn doesn't smile wide—I don't think I've ever seen him offer a toothy grin to anyone—but he gives me the closest version of a happy smile and steps past me to return to his brothers.