Page 186 of Carrick
He was supposed to be the one who saw through the fog. The one who always knew where the trap was. The one who took the hit, not watched it happen. But he didn’t stop it. Didn’t seeit coming. Or maybe he did. Maybe he froze. Maybe he was just too late. And too late is still too fucking late.
Now there was blood on his hands. On his clothes.
And I could taste the ash in my throat again.
I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to look at him without feeling it—without tasting that burn. That char. That cost.
He said he tried. But trying didn’t bring anyone back. It didn’t stop a rocket. Didn’t mean a damn thing when all I had left was a twisted scrap of metal and my brother’s voice echoing in my skull like he still might walk through the door. But he wouldn’t. Not now. Not ever. Because of me. Because he loved me. Because I mattered more to him than his own life. And all it earned him was a fireball and a funeral we’d never even get to hold.
I curled tighter, fingernails digging into my arms, skin damp with sweat, tears, and the kind of grief that doesn’t fade with time—it just gets quieter and sharper until it becomes part of you. Rayden was gone. And I didn’t know who I was without someone out there trying to protect me.
A soft knock broke through the silence, tentative and light—like he knew the room wasn’t just a room anymore, but something sacred. Something scorched and broken.
“Bellamy,” Carrick said on the other side of the door. His voice was low, almost careful. “It’s me.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
The door opened anyway. His footsteps crossed the threshold like he was stepping into something that might bite back. The weight of him shifted the air. It thickened. Warped. I could feel the change, feel the way the house held its breath right alongside me.
But I didn’t lift my head. I was still curled against the floor, cheek pressed to hardwood, body wrapped around itself likethat might somehow hold me together. I knew it wouldn’t. But it was all I had.
He didn’t come straight to me. I heard the soft creak of the floorboards, felt the vibration in the wood when he crouched—not close, but close enough. “I shouldn’t have come in,” he said quietly. “But I couldn’t leave you like this.” His voice was gentle. The way someone might speak to a wounded animal when they were unsure if it wanted to bite or bleed.
I stayed silent—because nothing I could say was big enough to hold this.
Fabric rustled as he shifted his weight, but he didn’t reach for me. Didn’t try to close the space between us.
“I tried to protect him,” he said.
And I hated him for saying it. I turned my face away, burying it in the crook of my arm. The floor was cold against my skin, and I wanted it to freeze something in me. Numb it. But nothing was numb. Everything hurt.
“He died fast,” Carrick added, voice barely above a breath. “There wasn’t time for pain. Or fear. Just impact. And then nothing.”
I swallowed hard. My stomach clenched. “You don’t get to say that,” I whispered, and even I barely recognized the sound of my own voice. It was too thin. Too empty. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he said, and his voice didn’t waver. “I was there.”
“Exactly,” I snapped, finally lifting my head. “You were there. And he’s not.”
The look on his face nearly cracked me in half. Not guilt. Not pity. Something worse—something hollowed out and haunted. But it didn’t change the truth between us. He’d come back. And Rayden hadn’t.
Eventually—after too long on the floor, after my limbs had gone numb and my ribs felt like they were collapsing in onthemselves—I forced myself upright. Every part of me ached. My knees trembled. My spine protested the movement, like my body had fused into grief. But I sat up anyway. And I faced him. And the moment my eyes landed on him, something inside me howled.
Because Carrick looked wrecked. Truly, deeply wrecked. There was blood on his sleeve—dried, dark, cracking. Soot streaked his jawline. His knuckles were raw. And his eyes… God. His eyes looked like he’d stood at the gates of something holy and been denied absolution. Like he’d seen the worst thing imaginable, and carried it back with him.
None of it dulled the fury burning in my chest. Broken or not, he was still standing. He got to come home. And the one person he was supposed to protect—myperson—was gone, scattered in pieces I’d never be able to gather. I hated him for walking through that door. Hated the quiet in his voice, the softness in his stance. Hated the way he looked at me like I was still worth saving—when he’d already failed at the one thing I’d begged him to do.
“I needed one thing,” I said, barely above a whisper. My throat burned with the strain of everything I hadn’t said yet. “Just one.”
He didn’t speak. Not yet. His jaw was tight, like he’d swallowed glass and was still holding the shards.
“You promised,” I said, louder now, trembling so hard it hurt. “You looked me in the eye and told me you’d protect him.”
“I know.” His voice cracked on it. “I know I did.”
“That was all I asked,” I said, the words tumbling out too fast. “I didn’t need the world. I didn’t need peace, or closure, or safety, or answers. I just needed him.”
Carrick didn’t move. He didn’t offer excuses or try to explain. And maybe that’s why it hurt more. Because he knew there was no excuse that could make this right. No reason I’d accept. Nomission plan or tactical failure or twist of fate that would change the outcome.
