“You’re full of shit,” he breathes, without a trace of accusation. “But that’s okay.”
I want to argue, but the words never come. They’re stuck somewhere in the knot of tension beneath my ribs, tangled in the guilt I can’t seem to untie. He pushes off the wall and walks toward me, not aggressively, just… careful.
“I get it,” he continues. “Something’s not right about any of this. I’ve been trying to make sense of it, but no matter how I turn it around, it just doesn’t fit. The way we’ve been lately…” He trails off, watching me closely. “You didn’t want to hurt her.”
My jaw tightens. I look away, but the words won’t stay buried, and neither does the guilt.
“You don’t understand,” I say, my voice low, raw. “It wasn’t just that I didn’t want to… it felt like the world was going to fucking split open if I continued. Like every time I raised my hand, something inside me cracked, and I don’t get why.”
Emerson exhales slowly, his features softening. “I do,” he says. “Maybe not all of it, but enough. There’s something about her… it’s like she doesn’t belong in this mess. Seeing her in the middle of it—bleeding because of us—” He stops himself, jaw twitching.
I nod almost imperceptibly, because that’s exactly it. She doesn’t belong here. “I keep telling myself it’s necessary,” I whisper. “That we have to push her. That it’s the only way to get answers.”
“But it’s not,” Emerson says, without judgment. Just truth. “It’s not the only way, and maybe we fucked that up. But we’re not done yet.”
I look up at him then, searching his face for something solid to hold on to, and find it in the quiet conviction behind his eyes.
“We’re going to finish this,” he says, his voice steady now, sure. “Whoever this rogue is, whatever their game was—we’re ending it. And after that, we take apart every piece of Bryce and Dean’s empire that turned us into this. Brick by brick. If it’s the last thing we do.”
The weight in my chest shifts—doesn’t disappear, but loosens enough to let a little breath in.
“Yeah,” I murmur, throat still tight. “If it’s the last thing we do.”
Emerson claps me on the back, a firm, familiar weight, followed by one of those quick side hugs that passes for comfortbetween us now. It’s the best we do anymore—this wordless exchange of support dressed up as casual contact. We’ve never been brothers who say how we feel. Not since we were teens. Now, every touch is a translation, every silence a sentence unsaid. But I get it. So does he.
I clear my throat, trying to shake off the emotion that’s still lodged there like a splinter I can’t quite dig out. We stop near the door that leads downstairs; the air is cooler here, heavier somehow, like the hallway knows what lies beneath. If I had it my way, we’d never open that door again. Hell, I’d board it up, torch the foundation, and sell this house to someone stupid enough to believe it doesn’t carry ghosts.
We keep our voices low, murmuring just enough to pass for a conversation about business. Targeting the next associate, mapping the next hit. Bryce and Dean’s empire is already cracking; we’re just helping it fall faster. One name at a time. The work isn’t the hardest part; it’s the waiting. The wondering.
“It’s been over a day,” Emerson mutters, his voice dipped in guilt even if he doesn’t say it out loud.
I nod. “Yeah. We need to check on Cupcake. She’ll need water, food… a shower.”
He doesn’t correct me. Doesn’t argue. The name still fits, even if it’s wrong. Even if it hurts to say now. There’s no mistaking the fact that we’ve let it go too long. We told ourselves it was strategy—keep her isolated, let her stew—but deep down, Ithink we both know we’ve been avoiding her. Avoidingfacingwhat we did.
“Once we see Ronan,” I say after a moment, quieter now. “I’ll go down and help her.”
Emerson nods, giving me space to volunteer. It’s been a few hours since I checked on Ronan. Time blurs in this house, warped by guilt and the weight of what we’re becoming. But Ronan’s presence helps anchor me. He always has. If anyone can cut through the fog, it’s him.
Still, as I glance at the door again, a chill moves through me like a warning. The kind that whispers you’re already too late.
I push the chill from my spine and ignore the silent omen clawing at the back of my mind as I turn away from the basement door and head toward Ronan’s room. Each step feels heavier than the last, as if my body’s resisting what it already expects. The door creaks open, and I step into the low light, already knowing what I’ll find—what I’ve found every time I’ve come here for the past few days.
He’s still. Completely motionless.
Just like last time.
And the time before that.
And the time before that.
The machines keep whispering that he’s alive, a steady chorus of beeps and measured breaths offering quiet reassurance. But it isn’t enough. I don’t care what the doctors say. They keepinsisting he’ll pull through. That his vitals are solid. That he should wake up any minute now.
I don’t want medical jargon. I don’t want careful optimism wrapped in sterile words. I want Ronan.
I need something—anything. A twitch of his fingers. A shift beneath the blanket. Proof that he’s still in there. Still fighting. I need his eyes to open, sharp and irritated, already pissed that I’m hovering like an overprotective bastard. I need to meet his gaze and see myself reflected back, a reminder that I’m not standing alone in this fight.
Because if I lose him—if I lose my twin—I don’t know what I’ll turn into.