Page 66 of The Way We Are

His excitement is impossible to ignore. It's so potent, it forces the first smile on my face in hours.

After removing the bedding stained with orange juice and dumping it into a wicker basket in his massive ensuite bathroom, I assist him back into his bed.

“That’s Savannah,” I say, nudging my head to one of the many photos of Savannah sitting on his bedside table.

Thorn’s smile grows as he gathers the photo in his hand. “She’s really pretty, just like me.”

I laugh at the confidence in his tone. I’m glad a horrible disease hasn’t wiped out his cheeky personality.

“She'sverypretty,” I agree.

“Where is she now?” Thorn asks, placing the photo back on the wooden table.

I take a moment to contemplate a reply. I don’t want him to worry, but I don’t want to lie to him either. “She’s at the hospital. She was in an accident last night. But she’s okay now.” My last sentence comes out in a rush, mindful of the anguish dampening his eyes.

“She’s at the hospital?” he asks, his deep timbre dipping at his last word.

I nod.

“Then we should go see her.”

He scoots across the bed before rushing into the bathroom. He stands in the middle of the marble-tiled space for several seconds before pivoting on his heels and walking back out. As he peers around the room, looking a little lost, my brows furl, unsure how to help.

His perplexed expression clears when he spots a coat hanging over a freestanding closet on his left.

“Are you sure you want to go?” I ask when he shoves his arms in the sleeves of his wool jacket before grabbing a thick scarf from the closet. “It’s fairly warm outside... ”

My words trail off when he flings open his bedroom door with force before stepping into the hallway. I freeze for all of two seconds before taking off after him. Although the circumstances of my visit haven’t followed the path I intended, the final outcome is still the same.

Thorn is halfway down the stairwell before his brisk strides abruptly halt. I’m not expecting his stop, so I crash into his back. Savannah didn’t get her height from her father. Thorn would easily be six foot three inches tall. His shoulders are double the width of mine, and his hips sit near my chest. He's massive, but in an unintimidating type of way.

“Ruth,” Thorn calls out, his voice pained. “Ruth! Where are you, Ruth?”

His chest thrusts up and down as his eyes absorb the blank canvas that used to be filled with expensive paintings and antique furniture. He appears as shocked as I was by the emptiness of his home.

“Ruth!” He pants in quick succession, his breaths so ragged he sounds like an animal. “Ruth!!”

Unsure what has caused his sudden change in composure, I freeze, not speaking or breathing.

“Ruth. Where are you, Ruth?”

He gallops down the stairs before darting back up them. When he spots me standing frozen at the side, he charges for me so fast, I don’t have a chance to protest.

“Where’s Ruth? What did you do with Ruth?” He shakes me by the scruff of my shirt, his grip remarkably strong.

“I-I-I don’t know who Ruth is?” I admit. I met most of Savannah’s family during my childhood. None of them were named Ruth.

I don’t know what I said, but it was obviously wrong, because not only does the anger in Thorn’s eyes triple, so does his grip on my shirt.

He thrusts me to within an inch of his face before screaming. “Where’s my Ruth?!”

“Here... here... she’s right here,” says a male voice to my left, his words breathless from scaling the stairs at a record pace.

The stranger with inky black hair and a panicked face thrusts a hand-painted picture of Savannah between Thorn and me. Faster than I can blink, the expression on Thorn’s face switches from psychotic to the man I was interacting with only minutes ago.

“Ruth,” he breathes out slowly as his thumb glides down Savannah’s golden hair in the painting. “There’s my Ruth.”

I lean against the wall when he spins on his heels and stalks back to his bedroom at the end of the hall, his steps as brisk as my heart rate.

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