Page 36 of Worth

And that scares the fuck out of me more than anything in this life.

Chapter 12

It’s been over a week since Aiden and I took Blake to The Warehouse, and fuck if I didn’t regret taking her. Not because of anything that happened there; because of what is happeningnow.

Blake hasn’t come out of her room, even when the door is left standing open. She went straight there as soon as we returned from The Warehouse, shucking her shoes and half her clothes, and crawling into the bed without a single word.

The depression that has overtaken the spitfire who survived my uncle is potent. I haven’t quite put my finger on what triggered it so deep and quick, but I know it is one of the worst spells I’ve seen in some time.

Aiden has been taking Blake three meals a day, trying to coax her into taking even a single bite. If he gets her to eat anything at all, it is limited to a few nibbles. She hasn’t tried to bathe, reluctantly doing so when Aiden carries her into the bathroom every couple of days, the bath already run and ready for her.

Her nightmares have woken the house multiple times—sometimes more than once a night—her screams echoing and bloodcurdling. Aiden has more than one scratch on his face and neck from a flailing Blake while trying to bring her out of the dreamworld.

I am watching her waste away, and I am watching Aiden grow more and more panicked to make it better. I know there is nothing we can do. Blake has to decide to fight this on her own, and she’s very much giving up.

It wasn’t until last night that I became concerned that maybe shecouldn’tfight off whatever this funk was. When Aiden started calling for me in such a frightened voice, I hustled my ass right up those stairs without question. I’d honestly expected to walk into her room and find her dead, a noose of bedsheets around her neck.

Instead, I had found Aiden trying to hold her hands still while she stared through him, tears running down her cheeks. Her tank top had been bloody, her fingernails having carved trenches into her chest like she was trying to tear her own heart out. Aiden and I had taped socks to her hands to keep her from hurting herself further.

“I don’t know what to do,” Aiden whispers to me, while we stand in the doorway of her room. Blake is staring at the ceiling, flat on her back on the bed. “She won’t talk to me.”

I watch his brow furrow as he gazes at her still form, exhaustion lining his face. “You need to sleep,” I say, keeping my attention on him.

“I can’t,” he insists. “What if she needs me and I’m too asleep to hear her?”

“I’ll watch her.”

Aiden starts to shake his head, but I grasp his shoulder, jerking him back and forth a little. “You are no good to her if you don’t sleep. I will watch her until you wake up. I won’t let anything happen,” I add when he gives me a searching look.

There’s a moment of silence as I watch him digest my words, and then he nods. “Just for a couple of hours,” he relents.

He walks into her room, going to the bedside. “Hey, Kitten,” he says, his tone coaxing. “I’m going to get some sleep and Zander is going to watch over you for a bit, okay?” He pauses and then kneels down, planting his forehead against her arm. “Please come back,” he whispers. “I miss you.”

She doesn’t react, not even when he presses his lips to her forehead, and his face falls when he realizes it.

He trudges past and disappears down the hall, his door opening with a slight squeak, and then closing in the same way. I’m not sure the last time he slept, so I’m grateful he listened.

But now that means I’m stuck babysitting.

Sighing, I grab a book from the closest shelf without looking at the title and stride into Blake’s room. I flick on the lamp before dropping into the small sitting chair next to the boarded-up window. Blake’s eyes are open, but she doesn’t acknowledge my presence.

I open the book in my hands, toying a bit with the pages. Sparing one more glance at her, I clear my throat and look back down. The words of the book I picked—To Kill A Mockingbird—glare at me.

“When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow,” I begin, without stopping to examine why I’m doing it. I check, but Blake remains still and without response. I push on, keeping my pace steady and smooth as I read.

Two chapters in, I pause, letting my throat rest. When I look up this time, I realize Blake has turned her head, her eyes locking with mine. I say nothing, holding her gaze with a sort of challenge that I know would have made the old Blake bristle.

But she only stares, then rolls onto her side, facing away from me.

It’s not everything, but it’s something.

Feeling as if Blake has announced that she doesn’t want to hear more tonight, I close the book with a soft thump.

I’m drowning in the thoughts swirling around in my brain.

They’re never-ending; the questions that started plaguing me the second I realized what The Warehouse was, continuing to haunt.

Why am I so stupid?

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