Page 82 of Roaring Flames

Everything with Izzy is fucked up. Our pack is made up of disparate pieces that are unable to form a coherent picture. We don’t know how to act together, how to work together, how to survive together. We’re no better than the lone wolves that eventually go feral.

I miss my pack.

I miss my twin.

I miss Izzy.

I barely know the girl, yet my heart craves her presence, is drawn to that effervescent grin that shatters me into pieces and reforges me into something new.

Will she ever forgive me for keeping this a secret?

I know I’m not the only one to blame, but I was her friend. I amstillher friend, even if she doesn’t consider me one. And that bond should’ve superseded any other.

Friends tell friends the truth.

I lick my suddenly dry lips as emotions ravage me.

Anger at Ashton and Ethan.

Grief for a life that was taken too soon.

Anguish that my sister is suffering.

Fear that Izzy will never forgive me.

And terror—a potent type of terror that steals the breath from my lungs—that our pack will never be whole.

I vow to myself, right then and there, surrounded by the ghosts of those we lost, that I’ll do better. Be better. I refuse to give up on Izzy or my pack.

Not now.

Not ever.

Sometime later, Sidney drifts off to sleep, and Ethan carries her to her bedroom. The room has barely been in use since Sidney moved into her apartment, but Mom always makes sure to keep it clean.

My sister looks so small beneath the mound of blankets, so vulnerable.

My heart pinches painfully as I follow my brother out of the room, shutting the door behind me softly.

The two of us don’t acknowledge one another as we bypass both of our bedrooms and take a right near the kitchen. There, we descend a long staircase that leads to a half-finished room below.

It was a project my dad started years ago, before everything went to shit. He enlisted our help in completing it. But then Dad got distracted by pack politics, and the basement never got completed. It’s nothing but a concrete jungle full of pipes, padding, and rusty tools.

Ethan and I used to hide away down here whenever we wanted a break from our parents and sister. They never thought to look in the place they abandoned, allowing it to be eaten by dust and spiderwebs.

The two of us haven’t been down here in a year.

Two beanbags—one red and one blue—sit in front of a dirty television that has a long crack down the screen. We found it one time in the dumpster. We think it used to belong to Sidney. Surprisingly enough, it still works, though the picture is fuzzy and sometimes indistinct.

Ethan drops himself into the blue beanbag while I claim the red. I suddenly feel like a little kid again—escaping the world and everyone in it. The only person I ever wanted by my side back then was my brother.

Ethan throws his head back until he’s staring up at the half-finished ceiling. His tattooed arms flex where he’s gripping the edges of the beanbag.

“Everything is so fucked up.” His voice is hoarse. Raspy with some indecipherable emotion.

I wonder if his thoughts traveled down the same path as mine did. If he thought about our crumbling pack. About Izzy.

When I remain silent, lost in the tempest of my own thoughts, Ethan prowls ahead, his voice a rugged exhale. “Izzy hates us. Ashton is on my shit list. Reid is…well…Reid. And you…” His breath hitches. “You hate me.”

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