Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 123575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
I reach the stairs, leaning heavily against the wall as my legs threaten to give out. The truth settles over me like a shroud—there are no heroes in this story. No noble protectors. No redemption waiting in the wings.
Just two broken men, shaped by the same trauma into different monsters. And me, caught between them, no longer a pawn, perhaps, but still very much in danger of being consumed by their mutual destruction.
The strangest part isn’t Aries’s betrayal or Arson’s unexpected care. It’s the realization that despite everything—despite the manipulation, the violence, the using—I’m not running away. Not planning my escape. Because somewhere along the way, I’ve become as broken as they are. As unable to walk away from this darkness they’ve pulled me into.
As complicit in whatever happens next.
Arson
Imaintain my distance as she processes what happened with Aries. Twenty-four hours of careful avoidance—bringing her food but not sharing a meal, checking security systems while she sleeps, working in the outer rooms when she’s awake.
Clinical. Efficient. Removed.
I can’t even count how many times I’ve told myself it’s better this way. Distance protects us both from the bond that started to form in the shower and bed. From the unexpected tenderness that threatens years of carefully cultivated hatred. From the uncomfortable realization that I’ve come to care about what happens to her. I hate it. I hate that I’ve used her, that I allowed my brother to hurt her and made her a pawn in a war she had nothing to do with.
She spends most of the day in bed, curled away from the door, sometimes sleeping, sometimes staring at the wall. Processing. Mourning. Coming to terms with the death of a fantasy she’s carried for years.
I recognize the stillness and the careful conservation of energy. I perfected it in the institution—this method of rebuilding internal defenses after they’ve been shattered. So I give her space. Give her time. More consideration than I’ve shown anyone in years.
By the morning of the second day, I can tell something has changed. She emerges from the bedroom while I’m reviewing surveillance footage, hair damp from a shower, wearing my clothes still but with a new determination in her posture. The broken girl from yesterday has disappeared.
“We need to talk,” she says, voice steady despite the lingering shadows under her eyes.
I close the laptop, giving her my full attention while maintaining physical distance. “About?”
“What happens next?” She sits across from me at the small table, hands folded precisely on its surface. “What is the plan now that Aries is secure again?”
“I’m sorry, but there is no ‘we’ in this discussion,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “You’ve seen what happens when you get involved. It’s better if you focus on recovering.”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m involved. Have been since the moment I recognized you weren’t Aries at that party. Since I found Mother’s files. Since we had sex.”
“A series of mistakes,” I counter, “that won’t be repeated.”
“Mistakes?” She leans forward as if she didn’t hear me correctly. “Is that what you call what happened between us?”
This is dangerous territory. Uncomfortable, I stand, putting more distance between us. “What happened was the result of chemicals, adrenaline, and poor judgment. Nothing more.”
The lie tastes bitter, but necessary. Whatever connection formed between us in those hours of tenderness is a vulnerability I can’t afford to acknowledge. Not now. Not with everything finally falling into place.
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” Her directness surprises me. “Something changed between us. I felt it, and I know you felt it, too.”
“The only thing that’s changed,” I say coldly, “is that you’ve finally seen Aries for the piece of shit he is. Don’t mistake my gratitude for something deeper, Lilian. It’s beneath both of us.”
“Gratitude?” She stands, matching my movement, refusing to be physically dominated even as I tower over her. “You think that’s what this is about?”
“I think you’ve had your illusions about one brother shattered.” I do my best to keep all emotion out of my voice. “And now you’re transferring those feelings to the other. It’s basic psychology.”
She laughs, but the sound holds no humor. “For someone so observant, you can be remarkably blind when it suits you.”
“And you can be remarkably naive.” I move to the security monitors, checking them more as a distraction than necessity. Anything to avoid the intensity in her eyes. “This isn’t your fight. Never was. You were a complication I should have handled differently from the start.”
“A complication?” She follows me, refusing to be dismissed. “Is that what you call someone who helped you? Who offered you information about the family you didn’t have? Who gave you—”
“Gave me what?” I turn sharply, cutting her off. “Your body? Is that what you were about to say? Because my experience was a bit different from yours. Nothing was given. You didn’t give anyone anything. We took it.”