They can’t answer her. Rowen and Em stand there as if they’ve forgotten how to speak, mouths parted, breathing shallow. I can’t let her get it from them—not like this. Not with their silence stretching into something jagged and cruel. I clear my throat; the motion scrapes like sandpaper, and shuffle one unsteady step forward.
Every muscle in my body protests, but I ignore it. She needs me more than I need comfort.
I kneel—slowly, painfully—and let my body sink beside her. My legs collapse beneath me, but I don’t care. All I care about is getting close enough to touch her. To anchor her before the truth sends her reeling.
She gasps the moment I settle beside her, startled by how close I am. Her hands flutter just above my chest, trembling, as if afraid to make contact and find nothing but wounds. Her eyesswim with unshed tears, her lower lip quivering as she chokes out a whisper meant only for me.
“You’re, okay?” she breathes, her voice laden with so much weight it nearly crushes me.
“I’m okay,” I murmur, reaching up to cup her face, careful not to cause her more pain. Her skin is warm and soft against my palm, despite everything. She leans into the touch instinctively, like it’s the only solid thing left in the world. My thumb brushes beneath her eye as her lids flutter shut for a second of fragile peace.
But that peace is short-lived.
“We didn’t get to the conversation the next day, did we?” I ask quietly, already knowing the answer. Her head shifts against my hand, a barely there shake, a sad smile tugging at her lips.
“No,” she whispers.
“It sounds like we need to go first.”
The air changes. I feel it before either of them makes a sound. Emerson and Rowen inhale sharply at the same time—synchronized like the fuckups they are—because it’s finally sinking in.
She doesn’t know.
Berkley has no idea about Reign.
I let my hand drop from her cheek as I brace for the blow. My voice is rough, heavy with regret. “Reign’s gone, Berk. She…” I pause, swallowing hard. “She died.”
She stills, like her blood’s turned to ice.
“She passed a week after the fire and—” I stop myself, choosing my words carefully, trying to protect her from the jaggedest parts, but how do you protect someone from a truth like this?
“She left a note,” I continue quietly, feeling her begin to tremble. “Said… said that you slept with her boyfriend the week before. And now that you were gone, she couldn’t—” My voice cracks. “She couldn’t handle life.”
Berkley doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. It’s like the words reach out and rip her heart clear out of her chest. And I hate myself for being the one to say them. But someone had to. And if I could carry this weight for her, I would. But some truths—some griefs—you just can’t shield the people you love from.
Not when the past refuses to stay buried.
She starts to shake her head slowly, like if she denies it gently enough, the truth won’t exist. Her mouth parts on a whispered “no,” the sound so soft I barely catch it, but it guts me all the same. The way her entire body folds inward is like watching a building collapse in slow motion—too tragic to stop, too painful to look away from.
And that’s when Rowen, in all his self-loathing glory, decides to twist the blade.
His face morphs into something ugly, not in appearance, but with intent. That practiced sneer pulls at the corners of his mouth; the same one he’s used since we were kids whenever hewanted to push someone away before they could get close. It’s a mask—a damn obvious one—but it still slices clean through the air between them. His voice drops low and cruel, brittle with rage disguised as indifference, but I know him too well. There’s nothing indifferent about it.
“Don’t know why you’re so upset,” he spits, glaring down at her like it’s her fault the entire world is crumbling beneath us. “She lost it after you fucked around on us.”
The words hang in the air like a bomb with a delayed explosion. His tone is bitter, but his eyes betray him. He’s unraveling. The desperation underneath his words is screaming loud enough to drown out his cruelty, but she doesn’t hear it. Can’t. She’s already too far gone, and that sentence—those hateful, hollow words—might just be the final blow.
The worst part? He knows it. Rowen knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s trying to punish her for the hurt he doesn’t know how to handle, for the truth he doesn’t want to admit. And it makes me want to punch him square in the face. Because this—this is not how we handle the people we love.
Fury ignites in my chest so fast it threatens to drown out everything else. It roars to life at the sound of his accusation—at the venom in Rowen’s voice and the cruelty laced in words he doesn’t fully understand. He’s my twin, the other half of my soul since birth, but she’smine. My heart. My breath. My goddamn reason for breathing. And if he pushes her any further, I’ll fucking tear him apart.
She doesn’t deserve this. Not after everything. Not when she’s already bleeding inside.
I shift, ready to rise—ready to tell him exactly what I think of the damage he’s done—but before I can say a word, Berkley trembles beneath my hand. Her shoulders quake, and I think she’s breaking. My chest tightens as I cup her cheek again, trying to ground her, to let her know she’s not alone. She places her hand over mine, small fingers threading through mine like an anchor, and then she whispers something so soft, so fragile, it’s only for me.
“I love you.”
My breath catches, stolen by the raw truth in her voice. And then—just like that—she’s airborne.