Page 209 of Seizing Control: Part One

They refuse to halt.

So, sniffing through the agony that’s tightening around my chest like a steel band, I give in to my grief. I’m not sure how long I silently sob for, it could be minutes or hours, but I eventually cry myself to sleep.

The dream that haunts me is as cruel as it is beautiful.

Zeke and Slash.

Sandwiching me between their hard bodies.

Driving me mad with their hands, tongues, and cocks.

Torturing me in the sweetest way.

Bringing me to another climax with a smile on their faces.

My subsequent slumber is deep and satisfying as I dwell in dreamworld with them. So much so, that I barely register my phone ringing in the early hours of the morning. I’m bleary-eyed, still half asleep when I grab the shrieking device and jam it against my ear.

“Yeah.” I work saliva into my dry mouth as I wait for the person on the other end to speak. When they don’t, I ask, “Who is this?”

“I need you to come to the rehab centre,” my middle brother demands in a rush.

In the background I can hear a baby wailing. The sound is an assault to my ears, so I pull my phone from my ear to lessen the noise. Seeing that it’s four in the morning, I tell Everett, “I can’t come now. Visiting hours don’t start until ten a.m.”

“No one’s gonna give a shit about visitin’ hours,” he snaps at me. Our relationship is tenuous right now, alternating between open hostility and quiet understanding depending on how well his rehabilitation is going at the time, so I let his rudeness slide. “Not when a baby has been left in my room in the middle of the night.”

“Everett—”

He speaks over me. “Your fuckin’ name is on the birth certificate.”

“What?”

“Yeah, the kid is supposed to be yours and Slash’s.” As the room starts to spin, I find it hard to breathe. The walls close in on me. I blink. Once. Twice. Three times. It does nothing to clear my tunnelling vision. When I try to speak, all the comes out is a strangled sound. “Oh, fuck… you’re havin’ a panic attack. I’mma hang up and call Sander. He’ll be with you in a minute.”

The call ends.

I sit bolt upright in bed.

Clutching at my throat, I do my best to suck in enough oxygen to stop my eyesight from going black. It takes me multiple attempts, but I eventually manage it. I grip the sheets tight, unwilling to let go of their stabilising force. Curling and uncurling my toes, I run them up and down the cool cotton, doing my best to ground myself.

“Damn it to hell,” I curse as the world finally rights itself. “He’s got to be joking.”

My door is shoved open, and my brothers and Nadia converge on me. Sander is the last to enter, slowly limping along on one crutch, clad only in his boxer shorts. They’re all in various states of undress. Nadia is yawning wide, her hair a mess and the straps of her nightdress twisted. My youngest brother, Nate, pulls a t-shirt over his head, then buttons his jeans.

Wyatt is the only one who wasn’t in bed.

Dressed in denim, t-shirt, and cut, he takes his time to assess the situation from a rational perspective. “Do we think Ev’s on drugs?”

“He must be hallucinatin’,” Sander offers.

“I heard a baby crying.”

They eye me with scepticism.

Frowning, Nate says, “So? That doesn’t mean it’s your kid.”

Exchanging a look with my best friend, the truth dawns on us at the same time.

“Bebe.” Nadia turns white after I verbalise our thought. “It’s the only possible explanation.”

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