Page 148 of Underground Prince

Mom.

And Dad right beside her, head cocked back and mouth stretched wide on his own chair. He’d have a hell of a crick in the morning.

Theo?

There wasn’t any need to search the rest of the room, as every other sense of mine told me he wasn’t here. The air was unchanged, the smell of him—his scent—scattered elsewhere.

A memory twisted its way forward, weeds creeping across my mind, but I couldn’t hang on.

I should know where Theo is.

“Scarlet…sweetheart. Hi.”

Mom’s face was mostly cloaked, her expression shadowed and highlighted strangely by the glow of machinery around me, but her voice said it all as she bent forward and stood, coming toward me. Choked relief, sweet gratitude, small forgiveness.

The rustling woke my father, who soon guarded my right side. In lieu of speech he found my hand and held on tight, bringing it to his mouth, my skin a barricade to his quiet sobs.

My parents. I loved them so much it hurt to remember. They were my constants, my guardians when I was sick, my warriors when I was wronged, never people to me but always heroes. I never considered they could be just like me, until our utmost loss. They were as human as I, yet my parents never put me through the rigors I imposed on them.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and it came from so deep inside I tasted my marrow.

“Shh. It’s all right,” my mother said, stroking my forehead.

My mother shushed with her brushstroke fingers, blurring my tear tracks, her dark outline beside my bed increasing in comfort the more I remembered her presence in years past. Sleeping by my side during the slightest temperature spike. Her innate sense of my decline before I had to voice it.

Mom. Mummy.

Dad coaxing a laugh out of me during dreaded cursive practice, failed reports, fights with Cassie. Always finding the positive in the most undesirable situations.

Daddy.

“Forgive me,” I sobbed, each rack of breath searing pain. My stomach heaved, growing pits as the grief gnawed its certainty. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“We forgive you, honey,” Dad said, speaking against the back of my hand, now damp with his tears. “You survived.”

* * *

“Hey.” A voice floated forward, coaxing me out of the heavy blanket of slumber.

A smear of brown, white and blue came into focus. Noah. His hair lit up at the tips, a semi-circle of light so bright I could feel my pupils shrink. The golden blush of morning.

“You know, sometimes I think you’re pretending sleep just to screw with us.” He smiled. “Listening to our darkest confessions to you while you feign being comatose.”

“Noah!” Fiery red poked out behind him, Verily’s fine features hardening with admonishment. “You think your first words to her could be ‘Thank God you’re safe,’ or something equally fulfilling.”

“Nah,” Noah said, still addressing me. “Scar hates clichés.” Though his cobalt eyes belied his words. They were suspiciously damp.

“I already know about your tiny penis,” I croaked.

“Scarlet!” Verily scurried to my other side. “What is it with you people? Why can’t I have normal friends? Leave it to you assholes to turn a mortal wound into a dick joke.” She sniffed, blinking fast and amended, “I love you so much. Welcome back.”

“Cliché,” Noah pointed out.

“Shut up,” Verily and I said at the same time. She and I met eyes, and I smiled weakly as she laughed.

“You have such a way of giving people heart attacks,” Verily said to me.

“I concur.” Noah piped in. “Me. The actual witness to your human sacrifice.”

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