Page 190 of Burn Like An Angel

“I just… I’m not the person I was when I lived here. I don’t know who I’m coming back as now.”

“You’re still you, little toy.”

“Am I?”

His nimble fingers sink into me, providing a reassuring pressure. “Sure. Perhaps just a little rougher around the edges. A bit more scarred. But also a hell of a lot stronger.”

Twisting my head, I look up at him. “I lived here alone for a long time. I’m coming back with something else too. Three something elses.”

“That a problem?” His mouth hooks up.

“No.” My hand moves to rest on top of his. “I love you, Xander. I want you to know that even if you can’t say it back.”

His star-speckled, navy eyes flick over mine. Considering. Processing. We’ve come a long way, but I know he’s still learning to let people in. I don’t expect him to return the sentiment.

“My chest feels strange when I’m with you,” he rumbles. “It has for a while. Is that what this feeling is, Rip? Love?”

“Is that what you think it is?”

Xander peers away, his bottom lip clamped between his teeth. “I’m not sure. I haven’t felt it before.”

I look briefly at the other two. “Does your chest feel like that when you think about Lennox or Raine?”

“Yes.” He clears his throat. “But in a different way. They’re my brothers.”

“Because you care about them.”

“Yes.”

As much as I want to drag the words out of him, I leave Xander with that realisation. His mind takes time to pick the world apart and translate it into terms he can understand. I trust that he’ll get there.

Pushing open the apartment door, my nose wrinkles at the stench of thick dust and disuse. A massive pile of unansweredmail has been neatly stacked on the console next to the front door by whoever checked the place over.

The guys tentatively follow me into the vast, open plan space. Vaulted ceilings stretch all the way to the rafters, lined with huge steel beams. Light spills in through floor-length windows built into the brick.

I divided the space into two—living on the right side with the two bedrooms, a shared bathroom, glistening steel kitchen and restored, antique dining table. It’s all still the same beneath inches of dust.

On the left, my studio space is separated by rows of drying racks and a bookshelf full of art books. Years worth of old canvases are stacked in piles, exactly how I left them.

“Bedrooms are over there.” I gesture to the right. “I’ve no idea how clean any of the linens or towels will be.”

“How did you pay the bills?” Lennox queries.

“I’d accumulated enough from selling art over the years.” Dust particles tickle my nostrils. “Everything gets paid automatically each month so I knew the place would be okay while I was gone.”

Leaving them to explore, I walk into the living area. Behind the table, I have a smattering of different coloured armchairs, all thrifted from my local antique dealer. I’ve always loved objects with history.

At the console table next to one of the windows, I flick on the Tiffany lamp, illuminating a collection of framed photographs I kept on display. My parents’ wedding photo. A shot of me, all red and scrunched up, swaddled in my dad’s arms.

The final frame holds one of me and Uncle Jonathan—my graduation from art school. I wore my robe with my hard-earned diploma clasped in my hands. But I can see the strain behind my practised smile.

It fucking hurts to look at him now. Younger but still immaculate in his charcoal suit and blue tie. Those same clear eyes, filled with schemes and secrets. I was still trying to please him back then.

Lifting the frame, I throw it at the brick wall and watch in satisfaction as it shatters. The smashed glass hits the floor, shredding the photo imprisoned inside.

“Ripley?”

“I’m fine!” I call back.

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