Page 20 of The Reckoning
Because that’s what this is, isn’t it?Obsession.The way he watches her, the possessive set of his shoulders—this isn’t just concern for an ally or a friend. This is something deeper, darker. Something that mirrors the feelings I’ve spent years trying to bury.
“The doctor should be here soon,” Drew says for the third time in ten minutes, his voice cutting through my brooding.
“He’s taking too fucking long,” Arson growls, taking a step toward the door. “I should wake her up. Check if she’s okay. Should she be sleeping this long?”
I push off the wall, blocking his path. “She needs to rest, and you need to relax. So sit the hell down.”
“Get out of my way, brother.” The word drips with venom.
“Not happening.” I don’t move, don’t flinch when he steps closer. “The last thing she needs is you hovering over her like some psychotic guardian angel.”
“Psychotic?” His voice drops to that dangerous register I’ve heard him use when he’s seconds away from violence. “That’s rich, coming from the golden boy who’s acting like this is all my fault.”
The accusation hits like a physical blow, even though it’s not entirely fair.
Neither of us could have prevented what happened—we were both locked up when his backers made their move. But that’s thething about guilt: it doesn’t follow logic, and I can’t shake the feeling that I should have done something more.
“You think I don’t know that?” I snap, feeling my own control fraying. “You think I don’t replay every second, wondering what I could have done differently?”
Drew clears his throat nervously. “Maybe we should?—”
“Shut up,” we both say in unison, never breaking eye contact.
There’s something almost comical about the synchronization, the way we move and react like mirror images. What isn’t funny is the tension crackling between us, the unspoken competition for something we can’t quite name.
For her.
All of this, every single thing, is about Lilian, about the way she looks at both of us with those blue eyes that seem to see straight through every carefully constructed wall. He had feelings for her since he first met her, and her involvement satisfied both his desire for revenge and his lust for her. I’ve spent years convincing myself that my feelings for her were inappropriate, and wrong. That the distance I maintained was for her protection, for both our sakes. But watching Arson’s desperate need to touch her, to claim her, I realize I was just lying to myself. He never bothered pretending he didn’t want her. Only pretending she was a means to an end.
I’ve wanted her so long now, yet each time I admit it to myself, it still registers as wrong deep in my chest. I have always wanted her, in ways that have nothing to do with family dynamics and everything to do with the fierce, brilliant woman she’s become despite everyone’s attempt to cage her.
“Tell me about Richard,” I say, forcing my voice to remain level. “What did he really want?”
Arson’s jaw tightens. “Nothing important. Or rather, nothing I’m going to do.”
“That can’t be the reason you look like you want to murder someone.”
“Besides the obvious?” He gestures toward Lilian. “He did mention her specifically. Said she’s been missing appointments and not responding to calls. He wants me to find her.”
A chill runs down my spine. “And?”
“And he talked about some new treatment protocol. Something the Medical Research Division has been developing.” Arson’s hands clench into fists. “For her heart condition.”
The same division that ran the facility where they kept him. Where they experimented on people under the guise of medical care. The pieces click together with horrible clarity, but this time I’m really hearing it—not just the facts, but the weight behind them.
I’ve heard Arson rant about the facility before, screaming accusations through his cell door about torture and experiments. Back then, it felt like the ravings of a madman, designed to hurt me and make me feel guilty. This is different. This is calm and factual, making it infinitely more terrifying.
“They want to bring her in,” I realize, nausea rising in my throat. “Use her condition as an excuse to?—”
“To what?” Drew interrupts, finally paying attention to our conversation. “What are you talking about?”
I look at my twin, seeing my own horror reflected in his features, but there’s something else there, too—a bone-deep exhaustion that comes from carrying this truth alone for so long.
“Hayes Enterprises doesn’t just run corporate acquisitions. They have a medical division that…experimentson people. Under the guise of treatment.”
“That’s where they kept me,” Arson confirms grimly. “Where they experimented on me, thinking they could break me down and reshape me. Instead, they forged me into the perfect weapon to bring them down.”
The casual way he says it—like he’s discussing the weather instead of years of systematic abuse—makes my stomach lurch. How many times has he had to repeat this story? How many times has he been dismissed, disbelieved, or written off as delusional?
