The Gender Game 5 by Bella Forrest (top 5 books to read .TXT) 📗

handsome face was bruised down the side, and he was favoring one leg. Worst of all, though, I could see even from this distance that his eyes were flat and hard, but it wasn’t the hardness of anger. No, this was a look I knew all too well… from Ashabee’s manor.

I looked around at the rest of the crew, watching as Amber, Ms. Dale, and Dr. Arlan came into view. Dr. Arlan was carrying a small boy, a red-stained bandage wrapped tightly around his thigh, in his arms. Thomas plodded into view, and my heartbeat quickened as I saw the same forlorn look all the others wore even on his face.

“Where’s Owen?” I asked.

Viggo’s brows drew together, and he opened his mouth, only to slam it shut so hard I swore I could hear his teeth clack together.

I heard another door slam and took a step off the porch as Owen came into view. He was holding another boy, probably around nine or ten, with blond hair. His eyes were closed, his cheek pressed to Owen’s shoulder.

In the gray, wan pre-dawn light, Owen’s eyes were swollen and red. He held the boy tightly in his arms, as if he would never let go. It would’ve been sweet if there weren’t an air of deep sorrow radiating off him like a winter storm.

My eyes flicked again over the boy Owen was carrying, this time noting the similarities between the two. My heart plunged into my stomach as I met Owen’s bloodshot gaze. Tears were swimming there.

“Ian,” I gasped, and Owen swallowed, his face breaking as he sagged to the ground, clutching his little brother’s lifeless body tightly to his chest.

27

Violet

I moved over to Owen, kneeling next to him. He was sobbing, each breath heaving as though torn from him, as though his heart had been ripped out and cut in two before his eyes. In a way, it had.

I threw my arm around him, holding him close as his body shook under the force of his cries. Each one was like a knife to my own heart, and I tasted his pain—it was so close, too close, to my own. But this was… this was agony. It was cruel and unjust and wrong. I didn’t have any words to make it right, because there were none. Nothing would ever make this right.

So I didn’t say anything. I let Owen cry for a few minutes, then gently coaxed him up. I didn’t ask him if he wanted someone to help him with his brother. I knew if it were me in his shoes… I stopped that train of thought before it could even reach its conclusion. Owen needed me right now, and I couldn’t, wouldn’t let my worry over Tim affect me. Later, when I was alone, I would cry for Owen, Ian, and Tim. But right now, I had to focus.

“C’mon, Owen,” I said softly, urging him forward. “Let’s get him inside.”

He took a shuddering breath as he plodded forward, and I stayed beside him, pressing him onward. Amber held open the front door for us, her eyes shimmering with tears, and I reached out and pressed my left hand into hers, squeezing it.

As we passed Gregory, I nodded at him. “Tell Ms. Dale what we’ve been doing and why, and she’ll tell you how to proceed.” He nodded and disappeared through the front door.

I coaxed Owen down the hall toward the room I had been sleeping in. I opened the door and let him in first, then closed it behind us. Owen moved over to the bed, his movements wooden and robotic as he laid Ian down on the blanket, resting his head on the pillow. Then he sank down to his knees and rested his arms on the mattress, taking Ian’s small hand into his own.

Blinking away the tears already starting to drop from my eyes, I quietly moved around to Owen’s side of the bed and lowered myself to the floor, sitting next to him. Owen’s eyes gazed at me, but they were vacant, as if he didn’t even recognize me. Tears had cut tracks over his cheeks, and his nose was swollen and red. He sniffed a few times, his nose clearly stuffed.

I reached into my pocket, searching for something that just might be in there… yes. Paper napkins. I passed them to Owen, and he reached out, taking them with the hand he wasn’t using to hold his brother’s hand. He stared blankly at them for a moment, and then dropped them to the bed, pushing the wadded edges apart with one hand until he had singled one out. He picked it up and dabbed it across his eyes, trying to sop up the tears.

I waited. There weren’t words in the history of all languages to make him feel better. I knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt. Anything I attempted would only come off wrong. Owen didn’t need words, didn’t even want them. He wanted his brother back, and that was a void in his heart words would never touch.

I remembered all the things everyone had said to me after my mother had died. All their words and attempts at kindness had only made me angrier. I didn’t want Owen to suffer through that. So I let him keep his own pace.

The minutes dragged by, periodically punctuated by his sniffles and the few times he blew his nose. I sat through it all, certain this was where I needed to be. After a while, he met my gaze, his expression lost.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he admitted hoarsely.

I nodded, tears pricking my eyes. “I know.”

Owen leaned forward, brushing his fingers over Ian’s blond hair, adjusting a few of the locks against his forehead. In death, Ian’s eyes were closed, his face relaxed. He would have almost looked like he was sleeping, were it not for the fact that his chest remained perfectly still… and the