Page 11 of Jayson
“And you brought…a girl.”
I say nothing. What could I possibly offer that wouldn’t sound like a lie? There are no explanations she’d understand. And I’m not ready to strip myself open for anyone. So I just stand there, breathing through the fury curled low in my gut, as Nina’s eyes shift from me…to the girl at my side.
She looks like she’s been dragged from a grave. Mud cakes her from collar to ankle, streaking her face, matting her hair, dripping off her fingers like blood that hasn’t decided whether to dry or stain. Her clothes hang off her like they’re part of the wreckage.
She’s shaking—she’s cold and she’s full of rage—and I feel the tremor through my hand still gripping her elbow.
I don’t know what Nina sees when she looks at her. Maybe just another casualty of my war. Maybe she’s already tallying the cost.
All I see is something feral. A girl who should’ve broken halfway through the woods, but didn’t. A girl who kept fighting even when she lost. And somehow, that makes it worse.
Nina doesn’t move. She just stands in the hallway like she’s been waiting for this moment since the day I left.
Then, without looking away from the girl, she speaks.
“You had to drag a girl through the woods for you to comehome?” Her voice is low, smooth. “Your father would’ve been proud.”
The silence that follows is sharp enough to bleed.
The girl stiffens beside me. I do too.
My grip tightens on her arm, not to hurt—just to ground myself. Because that? That was a fucking knife.
I look at Nina, and for the first time in ten years, I feel fuckingtwelve again.Mud on my shoes, blood on my hands, standing at the threshold of a house that couldn’t contain all my rage and anger.
“I’m nothim,” I grit out.
Nina’s eyes flick to mine—cold, steady. “Aren’t you?”
The words are not loud or violent, but they’re just true enough to make me bleed.
I hold her gaze, jaw locked, the silence stretching between us like barbed wire. If she wants to test me, now’s not the time.
Not with Keira standing here, barefoot and broken, looking like something that crawled out of a nightmare I created.
So I just say it.
“She stays downstairs.”
My voice echoes in the quiet, cold and final. No room for questions.
My grandmother doesn’t flinch—of course she doesn’t. Her mouth just tightens, as if the words scrape against some ancient code she’s spent a lifetime following. Then she nods, slow and regal. “Of course.”
The girl stiffens beside me, a tremor of unease slipping down her spine. Her eyes jump between us, wide and desperate. “Wait—what do you mean, downstairs?”
I don’t answer. I just start walking, footsteps muffled against the thick rug until I reach the narrow hall that leads to the service stairs. The door creaks open with a reluctant groan, and a musty draft escapes from the dark below. Stone and silenceand the kind of cold that sinks into your bones and whispers that no one’s coming to save you.
I look back at her. “Come.”
She doesn’t move. Her arms fold across her chest, hugging herself like she’s trying to hold her fear in. “Is this… are you locking me up?”
“You have two options. Locked up or death. Your choice.”
“For what?” she demands. Her voice cracks, and it slashes something inside me, but I ignore it.
“Technically, you should be dead,” I say. “Which is the only other option if you choose not to go downstairs. NOW…,” I roar.
She hesitates—then follows. The basement door swings shut behind us with a thud that sounds a little too much like a prison cell sealing. She sucks in a breath and stares down the stairs like they’re a slow descent into hell.
