Page 77 of Last Hand

Because my mother is dead.

Because my baby might be, too.

Because my father is drowning in a grief I made worse by hating her.

Because my sisters, the ones I didn’t even know existed, might grow up remembering the same hatred I carried, and I don’t know how to stop it.

I don’t know how to hold any of this.

I don’t know if I can.

And I just—I just want to feelanythingthat isn’t this.

Milo’s behind me, his chest a solid wall against my back, his arms wrapped around my ribs like he’s trying to hold me together. Like maybe he knows I’m about to splinter apart into pieces no one can sweep up. His warmth is almost unbearable. Leone stands under the second stream, quiet, eyes locked on me like he’s not sure if touching me will break me further or bring me back.

“I’m here,” Milo murmurs against the side of my neck. “We’re here.”

I don’t answer. I don’t have words for the weight in my lungs. My mother’s dead and Emma will never meet her. The baby might not be okay. My father’s grief.

My arms wrap around myself even as Milo’s hold tightens. My chin dips to my chest, forehead pressed to the tile wall. I close my eyes, and I see her again. My mother. Rebecca. The way her body looked in the dirt. My father wrecked and weeping. The way I couldn’t stop any of it.

She died trying to protect what was left of us. And I didn’t get to say thank you. Or I love you. Or I forgive you. She just… left. And now I have these two girls whose lives are already cracked, and a father who might never come back from what he saw.And inside me, there’s this tiny thing growing—maybe growing—maybe already gone—and I don’t know how to hold any of it.

My breath hitches. Then again. Then it comes in ragged gasps. Grief, thick and choking, claws up my throat.

“I can’t,” I whisper.

“Fallon—” Milo moves like he wants to pull me tighter. I twist away from him, pace unsteady. I slump against the tile, wet hair plastered to my face, hands shaking. “Ican’t—I can’t—there’s too much. I don’t know how to be okay.”

“You don’t have to be okay,” Leone says. He’s closer now, his hand out, not touching yet. “Not right now.”

“I don’t feel anything.” The lie cuts my tongue, burning on the way out. “No, that’s not right. I feeleverything. I can’t breathe, I can’t think, I want to scream, I want to die, I want toburnthis fucking world down and build a new one.I can’t. I want to take it back!”

Leone grips my chin, tilting my face up. “Take what back?” he murmurs, and that knife that feels like it’s carving my heart from my chest twists a little deeper.

“Hating her,” the words scrape out of my throat painfully. “I can’t fix this,” I choke, realizing now I don’t have the answers for once. I can’t scheme my way out of this, can’t pull a second shift or a second job, can’t fix it with money, bargain for it, apologize, steal it or go back in time to save her. I have to live with it and I can’t, I don’t know how.

“Fallon,” Milo tries, soft again. “None of this is your fault,” he murmurs.

“No. You don’t get it. She died for me, the one person who hated her the most and she had to prove she didn’t deserve that hate by fucking dying for me!” I don’t know which part is anger and which part is grief so I know which part is panic when I can no longer breathe. Like invisible fingers are squeezing my throat so tight I feel like I’m sucking in air through a straw.

The feeling of grief, of pain, is overwhelming. It feels like it’s the only thing I can feel right now and it’s the last thing I want to feel.

Leone stares at me, his eyes searching mine. Looking for some sign that I’m okay or at least, that I will be. I want to tell both him and Milo not to worry about me. I can’t make the words form.

“It’s not your fault, Fallon.” he repeats and suddenly all I can think about is him. How much I wanted him when we were separated.

How I longed to be here with him and Milo. To feel the safety they gave me. How I wished for them to drive all thoughts from my mind.

Pushing up onto my toes, I press my lips to his. My hands move to his chest, pressing against his skin. Skin that’s so real and so warm that it chases away that sadness… That grief for just a brief moment. His lips move against mine, softly at first. Hesitant like he’s making sure I won’t run from him.

Then he’s kissing me back, hard, possessive, a groan rumbling in his chest that vibrates through me. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, not asking, just taking, and I give him everything. I meet his hunger with my own, a desperate, clawing need to feel something, anything, other than the crushing weight of loss. My fingers dig into his pecs, holding on like he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s tilted on its axis.

Leone’s hand slides from my chin to my nape, tangling in my wet hair, angling my head for a deeper kiss. His other arm snakes around my waist, yanking me flush against him. His erection presses against my stomach.

Grief, shame, and a desperate, clawing need for oblivion collide, and it all pours into this kiss. I want to forget. I want to feel something other than the crushing weight on my chest. I want him. I want them.

Milo’s hand lands on my hip. The touch sends a jolt through me. Leone’s lips leave mine, trailing a burning path down my jaw, my neck. He bites lightly at the sensitive skin where my neck meets my shoulder, and a choked sound escapes me, half sob, half moan. My head lolls back against Milo’s shoulder while Leone drops lower, his hot mouth finding my nipple as he sinks to his knees before me.

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