Page 35 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
“You’re already turning grey.” I pointed to a grey hair nestled in his beard.
“Well, whose fault is that?” Kit shot back, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Anyway, how did it go?”
I filled him in on everything, including the fact that Maxwell said I now had to wait for him to ring Seb, adding in an eye roll for good measure.
“But I want to go to Meridian this morning. Just to check it out.”
Kit’s expression darkened. “Rory, no. What do you mean ‘check it out?’ It’s not like we’re going to be able to see Dev banging on the attic window shouting for help.”
“I just want to stand on the road outside it,” I said, trying to sound reasonable. “To see what CCTV cameras there are, and stuff.”
“We can just ask Felix for that!”
I shook my head, wincing as my hangover protested the movement. “It’s Saturday. Seb says we’re not allowed to make him do stuff for us on Saturdays.”
That was true, but not the whole truth. The reality was more complicated, more gut-level than I could articulate. I needed to see the building with my own eyes, feel its presence. Maybe then I’d know if Dev was in there. Wolves have instincts about these things, after all. Probably.
Kit let out a groan that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Fine. I’ll go alone, then.” I straightened up from the wall, summoning what little dignity I could muster in my borrowed shirt and day-old jeans.
“You’re still half drunk.”
“Am not.”
“Your eyes are bloodshot, and you smell like a distillery exploded inside a nightclub.”
I gave him my best pleading look. “Kit, please. I need to do this. For Dev. I promise I’ll shower first.”
He stared at me for a long moment, then his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Fine. We’ll take my motorcycle. It’ll be quicker.”
Thethought of the roaring engine made my temples throb preemptively. “God, no. The noise will murder my headache. How about you drive my car?”
“Go shower and change your clothes. You look like you’re cosplaying as Theodore Maxwell’s one-night stand. It’s disturbing.”
Twenty minutes later, I found myself a passenger in my own car again. Kit always preferred taking the wheel rather than experiencing what he called my “fairground ride” driving style. The radio hummed with some indie rock station, and I tapped my foot to the beat, partly because I liked the song, partly to channel the anxiety buzzing through me.
Kit wouldn’t tell me off for fidgeting. He never did.
My thoughts drifted back to the nightmare I’d had this morning, before I’d woken up in Maxwell’s bed. It had been the same one I’d had for years—trapped in our manor house basement in Scotland, Dad looming over me, belt in hand. The air damp and cold, my heart thundering so hard I thought it might burst through my ribs.
Kit hated talking about our childhood. Sometimes I wondered if he was actually even more traumatised than I was, and it was all just repressed under those fluffy cardigans and that perfect posture.
Growing up, Kit had been the golden child. The perfect one. Setting standards that I couldn’t hope to meet in my wildest dreams with my chaotic brain and inability to sit still for more than thirty seconds.
I hadhatedhim for it. For the entirety of our teenage years, our only interactions consisted of me hurling abuse at him while Kit never replied, never retaliated, never even looked at me—pretending I was invisible. Kit had told me years later that our father had ordered him to act that way, to “not encourage my behaviour.”
Now, Kit refused to talk about that time, quickly changing the subject or flat out refusing, saying “let’s not dig all that up now” with a tight expression that meant the conversation was over.
I took a deep breath. “I had a nightmare this morning. I was with Dad in the basement. He was about to punish me again.”
Kit grunted, sucking in his lips.
“Did he ever punish you down there?” The question had been burning inside me for years.
“Sometimes,” Kit said, his voice flat.
He reached forward and turned the radio up, drowning out any possibility of further conversation.
