There. I drew in another harsh breath, because that was Cross. Low, gravelly, and smooth at the same time. He was my anchor. That voice, I clung to it, and let it pull me back in. I felt it readying my world again, making everything go back to equilibrium.

I turned my head, finding Cross and only Cross.

His eyes were narrowed slightly, concerned, but also patient. I saw it all, and I felt it all.

He’d let me lead.

I gave him a slight nod, and he returned the motion, moving back a little as I descended the rest of the stairs.

Channing was standing in the small clearing that led past the stairs and in front where the television was. It was the way to the kitchen.

He didn’t look like he’d slept either. His hair was sticking up, like he’d been grabbing at it. Unlike Cross, my brother had pulled on some sweats that rested on his hips, and like Cross, he was also shirtless. His tattoos seemed to stand out more this morning for some reason. It might’ve been my concussion. Everything was brighter, more detailed, more blinding.

The scowl on my brother’s face was almost more glowering than I remembered last night.

Then, because I had to address him, I lifted my gaze and felt another piercing effect. His eyes were on me, searing me, looking into me. They were warm. Sparkling. Almost glittering. And he was looking me all over, tracing my face, looking down, taking in my toes, sweeping back up, and as he did, I warmed under the scrutiny. I didn’t know why.

Yes, you do.

I paused, hearing my own voice mixed with my mother’s voice whispering in my head.

She/I was right.

Me and Dad. That’s how it’d been for so many years.

Mom was gone. Channing was gone. It’d been him and me. There’d been bad years, but there’d been good, too.

My throat swelled up, remembering that last night so many years ago.

In my room.

Hearing his footsteps going to bed.

Feeling that guy with me, hoping, praying, needing a miracle that he would check on me, and then he did. But he didn’t open the door.

I needed him to open the door.

Then his hands, and his words when he did come in, after I stabbed the guy, and after I was getting ready to finish the job.

“Bren.”

I forgot he said that.

I rocked back, almost falling until a hand touched my arm. Cross. His strength moved through me, and I clung to it, remembering. I was allowing myself to remember.

I was straddling the guy, already stabbing him.

Then, a hand to my arm. My dad. He was so gentle at that moment.