Page 51 of The Reckoning
A ghost of a smile touches her lips, there and gone so quickly I almost miss it. “You remembered.”
“Of course I did.” I continue the gentle stroking, feeling some of the tension ease from her body with each pass of my fingers. “It’s impossible to forget anything about you, Lilian.”
She rolls onto her back then, looking up at me with eyes so full of pain, so heavy with confusion, that it physically hurts to meet her gaze. “I don’t know who I am anymore, Aries. Everything I thought I knew about myself, about my life… It’s all built on lies.”
“Not everything,” I counter, shifting to lie beside her on the bed, propped up on one elbow. The mattress dips under our combined weight, bringing her closer. “The person you are—your kindness, your intelligence, your strength—that’s all real. That’s all you.”
“Is it? Or is it just what they designed me to be?” Her voice cracks on the question, raw emotion bleeding through. It takes everything in me not to gather her into my arms rightthen, to shield her from the cruelty of the world. “What if even my personality is just…medication and conditioning? What if everything I’ve been told about my father’s death is a lie, too?”
“It’s not,” I say with absolute certainty, needing her to believe it as much as I need to breathe. “I’ve known you since we were children, Lilian. I’ve seen you fight against their expectations, push back against their restrictions. That defiance, that spirit—that’s all yours. No one gave you that. No one could take it away.”
She studies my face, searching for something—reassurance, perhaps, or confirmation. Whatever she sees must satisfy her because she shifts closer, her head finding the hollow of my shoulder as naturally as if we’ve lain like this a thousand times.
We haven’t, of course. There have been moments—comforting hugs, casual touches, a handful of near misses when mutual desire overcame familial boundaries—but nothing like this deliberate intimacy. Nothing like the weight of her head on my chest, the scent of her hair filling my lungs, the warmth of her body pressed against mine. It feels dangerous and right all at once.
“Thank you,” she murmurs against my chest, the words vibrating through me. “For being here. For believing in me.”
I allow my arm to settle around her, pulling her closer, protective and possessive all at once. “Always.”
The door opens wider, Arson appearing in the frame with a flat pizza box balanced on one hand. He pauses at the sight of us together on the bed, something complicated flickering across his features—jealousy, longing, resignation, all warring for dominance. For a moment, I tense, expecting the worst—violence, accusations, another battle in our endless war.
Instead, he simply raises an eyebrow, his voice carefully neutral. “Room for one more? I brought provisions.”
Lilian lifts her head, extending a hand toward him in silent invitation. After a brief hesitation—a moment where I canalmost see him weighing pride against need—he crosses to the bed, setting the pizza box on the nightstand before settling on Lilian’s other side.
It should be awkward, the three of us together like this, given our history, our competing claims, our complicated feelings. And it is, a little. But there’s also something unexpectedly right about it, like puzzle pieces finally finding their proper configuration after years of being forced into the wrong places.
“Peace offering,” Arson says, flipping open the box to reveal the still-steaming pizza. The scent of basil and cheese fills the room, momentarily overwhelming the tension. “Eat before it gets cold.”
Lilian sits up between us, reaching for a slice. “Thank you.”
We eat in surprisingly comfortable silence, passing napkins and trading slices without the usual tension of our interactions. It’s strange to see my brother like this—guard down, defenses temporarily lowered, human rather than the vengeful force that has dominated my existence these past months. In the dim light of the bedroom, with Lilian between us, I can almost remember the boy he was before everything went to hell. Before the boathouse. Before the lies.
“So,” Lilian says finally, breaking the silence. “Seven days to dig into my father’s death, figure out what they’re planning, and stop them from doing…whatever it is they want to do to me.”
“And to destroy the power of attorney,” I add, the lawyer in me already mapping out strategies. “There has to be a legal way to challenge it.”
“We’ll need help,” Arson admits grudgingly, the words sounding like they’re being dragged from him against his will. “Resources. Contacts.”
“Drew might know someone,” I suggest, ignoring the flash of irritation that crosses his face at the mention of my friend. “He has connections in legal circles.”
“I don’t trust him,” Arson says flatly, lip curling in distaste.
“Neither do I, at least not anymore,” I concede, thinking of how quickly Drew had accepted my “twin” in my place. Some friend. “But we’re short on allies at the moment.”
“We also need to find out more about my father’s trust,” Lilian says thoughtfully, picking at a piece of crust. “Mother’s had complete control of it since his death. I never questioned it before, but now…”
“Now you’re questioning everything,” I finish for her, understanding the feeling all too well. When your foundation crumbles, nothing feels solid anymore.
Lilian looks between us, a small smile playing at her lips despite everything. “Are you two actually agreeing on something? Should I check outside for flying pigs?”
“Don’t get used to it,” Arson mutters, but there’s no real heat in his tone. Just exhaustion and a reluctant acknowledgment of necessity.
I find myself smiling too, the expression feeling foreign after months of captivity and rage. “Consider it a temporary alliance. For the greater good.”
“The greater good being me, I presume?” Lilian asks, her teasing tone a welcome respite from the day’s trauma.
“Obviously,” Arson and I reply in perfect unison, then share a look of mutual surprise and discomfort at our synchronicity.
