Page 55 of If You Go
She grins, but it fades when I really look at her — the circles under her eyes, the dullness around the edges of her smile. I kneel at her feet, leaning against the soft rug, studying her face until she sighs and turns away.
“What’s wrong, babe?” I ask gently.
Sam edges closer, instinctively reading the shift in my tone.
She exhales, long and shaky. “I was so worried, Sissy. And I couldn’t help. I just sat here while everyone else was fighting or running or bleeding. I was… useless. A burden.” Her voice cracks on the last word.
That’s all it takes.
Sam and I both move at once, climbing to our knees and wrapping her tight between us. She cries hard–body-shaking sobs that sound like they’ve been trapped in her ribs for days. There’s nothing to say. We just hold her.
When she finally stills, we stay there a bit longer — three kids tangled on a pink rug, breathing the same broken rhythm.
Eventually, I pull back, wipe my cheeks, and grab her hand. “You’re not a burden, Moon. Not even close. No one could’ve predicted what happened at Brenden’s place. You did what you had to–you survived. That’s enough.” Our childhood nicknames, Sun and Moon popping out. They usually cheer her up.
She nods, her lip trembles. But not this time.
“We probably should’ve come here first,” I admit quietly. “Would’ve been safer. What can they even do to us here?”
Sam looks uneasy but doesn’t answer. The question hangs between us like fog.
Before either of them can speak again, there's a soft knock at the door frame. Our dad stands there, shoulders squared beneath his charcoal suit, the silver at his temples catching the light. Brenden looms just behind him, jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts, his knuckles white around the leather shoulder holster. Both of them look carved out of steel—Dad weathered and battle-scarred like an old naval destroyer, Brenden polished to a threatening gleam, all sharp edges and cold purpose.
The shift in the air is instant.
Something’s wrong.
The knock on Selene’s door was soft, but it might as well be thunder.
Brenden walks in first, his expression carved from stone. My dad follows, heavier, slower, voice low enough to make the air tremble.
“What. What happened?” My voice sounds too small.
“We just heard from Gavin.” Brenden starts.
The name rips through me like glass. I flinch before I even register it.
“What?” My throat closes around the word. “What happened? I know it’s bad–just say it.” Sam grabs my hand. His palm is hot, grounding.
“He took Bridget,” Brenden says quietly.
The floor tilts. My heart slams once, twice, then starts racing so fast I can’t feel where one beat ends and the next begins.
“What do you mean hetook her?”I’m standing before I know it, pacing. “How–how did he grab her? She had guards. Yousent guards, didn’t you? What do we do? We can’t let him keep her. He’ll kill her—he’ll kill her, Papa!” My hands find his shoulders before my brain catches up. “Papa, what are we going to do?”
He grips my wrists gently, steady, but his voice carries the weight of too many plans.
“We’ve a plan, mo stór. Bridget knew da risk, tis part o’ da job. That’s why I called the lads in. We were goin’ over what t’ do if somethin’ like this happened, and right then—” He sighs, the sound of defeat in his lungs. “Right then, the bastard reached out. We’ve already set things in motion, but I need ye t’ tell me if he tries t’ contact ye. Everyone else has burners, but ye—ye’re the one he’ll reach for first.”
My hands drop. I can’t feel them. I can’t feel anything.
He wants me towait. To be bait.
The room folds in on itself. The air thickens, pressing against my chest. I can’t catch a full breath.
Brenden crouches down in front of me. I can see him, his mouth moving, his hand reaching—but the sound—
The sound is gone.
