Page 87 of Brother's Keeper

“Fitch?” He caught me by the forearms and held them between his chest and mine. “What are you doing?”

I looked at him, my brows knit together and my cheeks streaked with tears.

“Talk to me,” he said, sounding sad and confused atthe same time.

Yanking my hands free, I crushed against him again. My fingers traveled downward to fumble with his belt buckle.

“Fitch, stop.” Nash grabbed my shoulders. He shoved me a single step back, then locked his elbows, holding me at arm’s length.

“I need this,” I said, choking on the same sob I’d been fighting since he arrived. Like a dangerous undertow, it threatened to drag me into deep water, and I was too tired to swim. “Please,” I begged. “I need you.”

He moved one hand to my face, tangling his fingers in my hair. His eyes were dark in the muted light as he trained them on me. “I’m right here, baby,” he replied. “You’ve already got me.”

I shook my head and squeezed my eyelids shut, setting loose a cascade of hot tears.

“Please just fuck me,” I said. “I need to feel something that isn’t this awful… emptiness.”

“Fitch, I don’t want to fuck you.” Nash’s voice was a rumble in my ear.

I bristled, ready to ask why the hell not. The fact that I was a snotty, soggy mess may have been reason enough, but he beat me to speaking.

“Can I just hold you?” he asked. “Will you let me do that?”

“That’s some real pussy shit,” I mumbled, but God, I wanted it.

He watched me, unmoving, until I let my head drop in a nod. I swayed back as he stepped over the side of the tub, then helped me out, too.

In the adjoining bedroom, a change of clothes was waiting on my side of Nash’s bed. We broke apart and I went to put them on while Nash turned down the sheets.

Dressed in borrowed pajamas two sizes too big, I stood in place, hugging my arms around my chest.

Across from me, Nash rifled through his bedside table and came out with a small glass vial filled with milky liquid. Walking around the bed to me, he held the bottle aloft. “Open wide,” he said.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t help,” I said with a sigh.

He shook his head. “This is just to help you rest.”

I did as bidden and watched as he flipped off the cork. He poured the draught into my mouth, and I swallowed. It tasted chalky and a bit like cinnamon, coating my raw throat on the way down. Nash cupped his hand to the nape of my neck and pulled me in for the forehead kiss I’d earlier rejected.

Either the potion was incredibly fast-acting, or I was exhausted enough not to need it. Dazed, I followed Nash’s instructions to lay down on the bed. There, I was further weakened by the silky sheets and plush mattress that cushioned me. A headache thrummed behind my eyes, begging me to close them.

I rolled onto my side, curling up, wanting to shrink. To fade away. To disappear. Part of me wanted to die or to be the one who had died instead. It would have been fairer that way.

The comforter draped over me, and I scooted toward the middle of the mattress, making space for Nash to press in behind me. His body was a welcomewarmth as his arms snugged around my ribs. I eased into him, molding myself into every curve. His bristly cheeks scrubbed the back of my neck.

Somehow, that wasn’t enough, and I turned face-first into Nash’s chest. I tangled up in him while my body shook with sobs.

“I wanted a better life for him, Nash.” I stumbled through the confession. “He deserved better than this. Better than me…” I choked up and fought for a gasp of air to say, “I’m toxic. I ruin everything I touch. I’ll ruin you, too.”

“That’s not true.” Nash’s fingers smoothed my hair in slow, repetitive strokes.

“Pippa hates me,” I mumbled, struggling with a tongue that felt suddenly thick. “She’s right to hate me. I’m no good.”

Nash shushed me again, then kissed the top of my head. “Pippa’s fine. Don’t worry about her.”

A final thought wisped through my brain, slipping out on a yawn. “Is Ripley okay?”

If Nash replied, I wasn’t awake long enough to hear it.

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