Page 22 of Demise

“Anything,” Asher says.

“Can we still all have group time? I don’t want to miss out on…all of this,” I say as I gesture between the two of them.

Matching grins spread across their faces.

“Babygirl, you’re the filling to our sandwich. You aren’t allowed to miss out.”

Asher and I wrinkle our noses up as we look at Liam.

“Filling in your what?” I laugh.

“What?” Liam asks as he looks between us. “Our sandwich, you know, like a Skyla sandwich and we’re the bread.”

Asher lets out a disappointed sigh and Liam rolls his eyes before he presses a quick kiss to his cheek. The stoic look doesn’t leave Asher’s face, but it does soften.

Awwww.

Ronan came over a few hours ago with a brand new phone for me. Since we have no idea what Corwin did with mine, he bought me a new one, which I’m incredibly grateful for. We are officially on winter break, and I decide to rummage through the kitchen to take inventory. Steph and I used to always do holiday baking, and I’m in the mood for a little joy, as much as I can get my hands on really.

I’ve managed to scrounge up all the basics for sugar cookies and look up a recipe online when my phone buzzes.

Maggie: Hey babe! I miss you, I feel like we haven’t talked in a while. Everything okay over there?

I grimace at the message. Yes? Kind of? No, not really. How did things escalate so fast with no warning, then like a passing storm at sea, the waters have calmed again like nothing ever happened? Honestly, it’s not all that comforting. Instead, I find myself on edge more than ever.

Me: I know, I’m sorry. Want to come over tomorrow? Catch up?

Her response comes in almost immediately.

Maggie: Sure! I have to go to dinner with my parents tonight…wish me luck.

Ugh, she’s told me enough about them to know that luck is the bare minimum of what she needs. Like most families in the Brethren, they are cold, distant, and expect their child to submit, being stripped of all individuality and personality. Clearly that’s just the way things are done around here. Doesn’t make it right, though.

Setting my phone down, I get back to mixing the dough together when a pair of arms wrap around me. It takes me a moment to recognize them, a new scent hitting my nose that I’m not overly used to.

“Hi, Wes,” I smile.

He drops his head into the crook of my neck, placing a soft kiss against my skin as he speaks.

“Hi, little one. Whatcha doing?”

“Making some sugar cookies. Want to help?” I offer as I turn to look at him.

He gives me a dubious look but still begins rolling up the sleeves of his black dress shirt. My eyes can’t help but be transfixed as I watch his corded forearms flex at the motion.Why are forearms so hot? Please, someone, explain it to me, because I don’t understand it myself. They just are, though.

Wesley begins washing his hands as I finish mixing the ingredients and grab the rolling pin. I start rolling it out when he comes up behind me again, putting his hands on the very end of the pin as we roll it out together. Well, I’m trying to roll it; he’s making jerky movements and pushing us from side to side before I laugh and look up at him.

Those blue eyes are practically sparkling as he winks at me before pinching off a piece of the dough and popping it into his mouth. My mouth drops in outrage.

“You can’t eat the dough!”

“Why not?” he counters before popping another piece into his mouth.

I swat his hand away when he goes in for a third piece, but that doesn’t deter him from grabbing it with his other hand and grinning at me. Looking around for the closest thing I can, I pinch some flour between my fingers before tossing it at his chest.

Now, it’s his turn to look outraged. His mouth drops open, and he looks down at his shirt before back up to me. It was right then and there that I realized how royally I had fucked up. Calmly, Wesley reaches behind me, grabbing a fistful of flour before sprinkling it over my head.

I screech and swat him away, but he holds both of my hands with one hand while coating my head with the other. Then, it’s on. We both reach for handfuls of flour, tossing it at each other before I grab two fistfuls and run to hide behind the kitchen island for cover. The air is thick with white powder, clouding the kitchen as we participate in all out baking warfare.

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