Page 76 of The Opposite Effect

“You don’t want me to stay with you?” Although she could mean staying with me at the hospital, her eyes aren’t relaying that.

“No. I don’t.” Pain hits the middle of my chest the instant the words seep from my lips.

Clara glares into my eyes, searching for any untruth in them. The only reason she fails to detect any is because deep down, I knew this day would eventually come, I just never wanted to believe it. But by manning up and stepping away from the plate I’ve been guarding the past four months, Clara’s silver spoon will find its way back into her mouth, and she won’t have to keep fighting the struggle she’s been battling the past four months.

I care enough about her that I’m willing to give her up to ensure she’s safe and taken care of.

Clara’s lips twitch, dying to speak, but not a word spills from her mouth. Her confused eyes dart to the door when it flings open and Cormack steps into the room.

Releasing a deep breath, she turns her eyes back to me. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

It kills me, but I nod.

She gives it her best fight to hold in her hurt, but a rogue tear rolls down her cheek before she mutters, “Okay. Goodbye, Brax,” before making a beeline for the door, exiting without a backward glance.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

It is a little after three in the morning before I’m striding toward the automatic double doors of the hospital. I’m beat—both mentally and physically. Ryan was in surgery for a little over three hours. After spending the next four hours in recovery, he was wheeled into a double private suite in the Intensive Care Unit. Although he was awake, he was barely lucid. But, thankfully, even with his words slurred worse than the weekend Chris and I spiked his cans of Coke with vodka, his doctor assured me he will have a full recovery.

Even being informed Ryan will have no long-term health issues from his bullet wound, the sick, twisted feeling in my stomach hasn’t lessened in the slightest. I haven’t been able to shake off the guilt I feel for hurting Clara. I spent the last forty-eight hours renewing the spark of life her eyes lost when she was mugged all to snuff it out by lying to her face. I know stepping back is the best thing I can do for her, but it doesn’t make it any easier to do. It took all my strength—and then some—to keep my feet planted on the floor when she bolted out of thehospital waiting room. If it weren’t for a uniformed officer arriving to take my statement, I have no doubt my fight would have been lost.

My brows become lost in my hairline when I stride out of the double doors of the hospital to discover my bike is still parked in the emergency vehicle only bay I had left it in hours ago. I already have my cell in my hand, prepared to call a taxi as I had expected it to be towed by now.

Shrugging off my confusion, I make my way to my bike.

I’m walking into my apartment twenty minutes later. The heaviness that has been sitting on my chest for the past eight hours amplifies when my eyes zoom in on the puddle of blood in my entryway. Just seeing how much blood Ryan lost makes the reality of the situation crash into me.

I nearly lost him today.

He almost died protecting the woman I love, and I thank him by pushing her away from me.

I’m a fucking idiot.

Call me a pussy, a soft-cock, or any other derogative name you like, but I’m not going to lie, tears are inundating my eyes and threatening to spill down my face at any moment. Ryan is the closest thing to a brother I have. He’s my family. That is why it is even more devastating that his own brother shot him.

I don’t know what is going on in Damon’s life, but it must be pretty fucked-up if he thought his only way out was to harm his brother. And if all that wasn’t already enough to have my mood hitting an all-time-low, knowing the gun that shot Ryan was pointed at Clara’s head only seconds earlier utterly destroys me. Her frightened face when Damon held his gun to her head will forever haunt my dreams.

Ignoring the pit forming in my gut, I drag a bucket and mop out of my laundry room to clean up Ryan’s blood that’s soaking into my wooden floor. I run the back of my hand over my cheek, angrily removing a stupid tear that escaped my overfilled eyes before clearing away the mess.

Just as I’ve finished mopping up Ryan’s blood, tiny feet padding down my staircase jingles through my ears. When I crank my neck to the stairs, I recoil and take a step backward.

“Princess?” I ask, certain I’m seeing things. I haven’t slept, eaten, or had a clear thought in well over ten hours, so a stint of insanity could be surfacing.

Clara glides across the living area wearing nothing but one of my plain white short-sleeved T-shirts. Her hair is damp and hanging loosely, her eyes are brimming with tears, and her face is void of makeup. The only difference between the Clara who left the hospital hours ago and the one standing before me is this Clara’s eyes are sparked with the gleam I thought I snuffed. They’re bright, determined, and one hundred percent relaying she’s not leaving this apartment until she gets what she came here for.

“What are you doing here, Princess?”

The smell of freshly shampooed hair overtakes the ghastly scent of blood when Clara stops to stand in front of me. “I wanted to clean that up before you came home, but, in all honesty, I didn’t know how.” Her nose screws up, and she looks genuinely mortified that she doesn’t know how to use a mop and bucket.

The most inappropriately timed chuckle escapes from my lips.Yes, I’ve definitely hit the insanity stage of my anguish.I can’t help it, though. Clara’s statement abundantly proves she’s a real-life princess.No fucking doubt.

Ignoring my erratic behavior, Clara removes the mop from my hand, places it into the bucket, and stores it back in the laundryroom. Not speaking a peep, she encloses her hand over mine and guides me to the staircase to my loft bedroom.

“What are you doing here, Princess?” I ask again, my voice relaying my disbelief.

Clara continues walking while muttering, “You’re in shock.” She stops pacing when we reach the base of the stairs. “You’re shaking and shit. So, unless you can give me the address of a family member or friend I can take you to, I’m staying with you. I’m going to take care of you.”

I arch my brow. “You want to take care of me? That’s why you’re here?”

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