Dylan

by Jo Raven

  “We’ve called 9-1-1,” she says in a hushed whisper, “but, between us, I think they’re gonna be too late.”

  The air leaves my lungs. “Dylan? His brothers? Have they come out?”

  She shakes her head.

  I ask nothing else. I start running.

  The fire is at the front of the house, so maybe the back isn’t burning yet. Need to get to the back door.

  Thankfully there’s a path going round the house, because the rest is this jungle of waist-high weeds. Someone was supposed to be with Dylan and the boys, I think vaguely as I race toward the back. Asher? Or Zane? Can’t remember who was coming by today. Usually by this time I’d be back to take care of Dylan and the boys.

  But today I’m late. Way too late.

  No. Can’t let this happen. Burning debris is falling around me, and I lift my arms to protect my head. The noise is incredible—timbers cracking and breaking, the crackle of the flames, glass shattering from the heat. Glowing embers float on the air. My footsteps are lost in the other sounds.

  Hoping the back door isn’t locked, I touch the handle. It’s warm, but not too hot. I turn it and open. Smoke pours from inside, getting into my lungs, and I start to cough.

  Shit. Fear constricts my lungs further, and I gasp for breath as I enter the burning house.

  “Dylan!” I crouch down, because I read somewhere that you should keep low, because the smoke goes up. This seems to be true, so I crawl across the kitchen. “Miles! Teo! Where are you?”

  I cough as I exit into the living room and turn toward the bedrooms. I try to call their names again, but every attempt makes me cough more, so I concentrate on reaching the boys’ room. The door is half open, so I push it and crawl inside.

  It’s hard to see in the smoky air, but the beds seem empty. “Miles? Teo.”

  Nothing.

  The smoke is getting thicker and avoiding it gets harder as I crawl back out and start for Dylan’s room.

  “Dylan?” I call out, and start coughing. I can’t seem to stop. My lungs burn. “Dylan!”

  I think I hear someone shouting my name, but I can only keep moving, dragging myself into Dylan’s bedroom, hoping against all hope I can still find him, save him. The smoke is thick like sea fog, stinging hot. I reach for something that might be the bedside table, as the realization slowly sinks in that I’m probably going to die here.

  “Dylan,” I whisper, my voice a painful whisper.

  Then something wraps around my waist and pulls me back. “Tess!”

  Well, I think as I’m hauled backward, through the toxic smoke, if I’m to die, at least it will be imagining Dylan’s voice saying my name.

  ***

  We’re at some distance from Dylan’s burning house, and the flames illuminate the night in a grisly, spectacular show. The ambulance doors are open, and I’m perched on the rear step, trying to control the need to cough so I can breathe. An oxygen mask is strapped to my face.

  A big, strong hand holds mine in a firm grip.

  Dylan. He’s sitting right next to me, dressed in his singed pajama pants and a long coat someone must have lent him. He reeks of bitter smoke. I don’t mind. It’s as if he knows I need him as close as possible, to believe he’s really okay, really here with me.

  I look up, into his deep blue eyes, and try to smile behind the scratchy plastic. He’s wearing a matching oxygen mask, and his face is pale and haggard, smudged with soot, but the warmth in his gaze grounds me.

  “You came for me,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “For us.”

  I want to say yes, but I can only form the word with my mouth and nod. My lips taste acrid and vile.

  He squeezes my hand. I went in for him, and he did the same. Went right back into the flames for me.

  From what I managed to gather from Dylan’s few hoarse words and what the paramedics told me, his brothers woke him up when the fire started, and together they managed to open the back window and climb out. They crawled through a hole in the fence to their neighbors’ house and called 9-1-1. By the time they went out to the street, a small crowd had gathered, and someone told him a blonde woman had gone inside, looking for him.

  So he’d left his brothers in his neighbors’ care and went inside to find me.

  By now, the Brotherhood has arrived. The guys are milling around the ambulance, talking among themselves.

  Audrey comes to hug me, tears rolling down her face, and won’t let go until Ash drags her off to console her. Erin and Tyler are sitting inside their car, talking about something. Zane is holding Dakota close, as if afraid she’ll get hurt if he lets go. Rafe was here, but now he’s gone again. Comes and goes like smoke.

  I shudder, and Dylan gives my hand another reassuring squeeze.

  The fire department is hard at work, putting out the fire. Even from this distance I can hear the deafening sizzle of water hitting the flames. Nobody knows yet what started the fire. The boys had been in bed, and so had Dylan, when they realized. It might have started in the kitchen, one of the old appliances short-circuiting. It’s an old house.

  Miles and Teo are asleep in the back of the ambulance, wrapped in thin blankets, their small faces dirty but relaxed. Everyone is safe.

  The knowledge takes its good time to sink in, hampered by the mad adrenaline rush and the discomfort of the awful cough caused by the smoke inhalation.

  Time passes in fits and starts, like in a dream, the images, sounds, impressions, and feelings all jumbled and randomly mixed. The only constant is Dylan’s presence, the strength of his fingers wrapped around mine, the realization he’d give his life for me. That he puts me above his own.

  Trust your instincts. Trust your feelings.

  Trust Dylan.

  Someone is walking toward us, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s Rafe. The flames leaping behind him turn his short blond hair into a halo and outline his tall, strong body.

  Dylan shifts, pushing off the step, but Rafe lifts a hand, signaling for him to stay. His face is stern, and I can’t tell if his normally light cat eyes are dark because of worry, or if it’s just the night closing around us.

  “How are you guys holding up?” He nods at me, then turns his attention back to Dylan without waiting for an answer. Something seems to be on his mind.

  “Hey,” Dylan rasps, reaching up to adjust the oxygen mask. He and Rafe pump fists.

  “Been hanging around the firefighters,” Rafe says, and I see Dylan’s brows climb up to his hairline.

  Why? I want to ask Rafe, but every time I try to speak, a coughing fit grips me, so I just watch curiously as he grinds his jaw and turns to look over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to be listening in.

  “The police are here,” he finally says.

  Police? What’s going on?

  Dylan pulls the mask off his face. “Why?”

  “A body was found,” Rafe says. “Inside the house.”

  A body. A corpse.

  Dylan pushes off the step, standing up, but Rafe pushes him back down with a hand on his shoulder. “Who?”

  “Dylan…” Rafe scratches the back of his head, and behind him I can see the guys approaching, clustering behind Rafe like a human wall, hiding the world.

  This doesn’t bode well.

  “What?” Dylan stares at them, his gaze jumping from one to the next. His lips are white with tension. “Who was it?”

  “Hell...” Rafe glances to the side, away from Dylan’s face. “Look, Tessa told me the cult your dad was involved with, and as soon as I heard about the fire, I knew…”

  “Knew what?” Dylan grinds out, and by now I think I know what Rafe is going to say. “Knew what?”

  Ice spreads through me.

  “Fuck, I’m no good at this.” Turning, Rafe walks a few steps and kicks at a loose stone. “Tell him, Z-man.”

  “Damn.” Zane steps forward and runs his hands over the shaved sides of his head. His jaw is tense. “Look, Dyl… There’s no easy way to say it. It was your
dad. He started the fire and died in it.”

  The words buzz in my ears.

  Dylan’s face turns white as paper. “My dad. My dad started the fire?” He’s staring at Zane, his eyes round. He clearly wasn’t expecting this, and it hits me that I never told him what Rafe said about Sky Gate and his suspicions. “And he’s dead?”

  “Dammit.” Zane looks like he wants to punch someone, the way his fisted hands shake at his sides. His mouth twists. “I’m sorry, fucker.”

  Dylan’s breathing harshly, and reaching up, I pull the oxygen mask back over his face. I squeeze his hand. He doesn’t seem to notice.

  Dakota tugs on Zane’s elbow. “Let’s give him some space.”

  “Yeah.” But Zane hesitates. “You two,” he glances at me, fury and sorrow clashing in his dark gaze, “are getting tattoos from me. I’ll be waiting for you at Damage Control once this is over.”

  Tattoos? What on earth is he talking about?

  Dakota pulls him with her. One by one, the guys step away. Rafe still has his back to us, breathing heavily. I wonder if he feels guilty for having his suspicions but not acting on them.

  Then again, what could he have done?

  Dylan is staring right ahead, his eyes unseeing. I see the glimmer of tears gathering, but not one spills over. His cheeks are dry, his mouth white. His quick breaths fog the inside of the clear mask, and his broad shoulders tremble.

  I can’t imagine what he must be feeling—knowing not only that his father set the fire that burned down their house with all their belongings, almost killing him and his brothers in the process, but that he’s now dead, too. No chance to talk, try to get some explanation, some closure. Say goodbye.

  Dylan hunches over, his breath hitching for the first time. I expect him to get up and walk away—hide his face, his emotions—or maybe work out his sorrow, kick some stones like Rafe did, maybe even punch Rafe or something—but he doesn’t move, doesn’t stir, only holds my hand more tightly.

  After a moment, I shift closer and lean my shoulder against his. He lets go of my hand to wrap his arm around me. He hugs me to him fiercely, tucking my head under his chin, and I hug him back as he shudders in the burning night.

  Epilogue

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dylan

  It has been three weeks since Dad burned the house with us in it and died in the flames. He fucking meant to die, I know that now. I ignored the signs because I didn’t want to believe it. Ignored how sick he was. Had I known, I’m not sure I could’ve helped him.

  He wanted to cleanse this house. Save us all through sacred fire and flames.

  Fucking hell.

  I grieve for him, for the father he used to be, the person who read us stories at night and took us fishing. That was light years ago.

  But mainly I’m furious at him for putting Miles’s and Teo’s lives in danger. Mine, too, but that doesn’t anger me so much. My brothers… They’re too young to fend for themselves, too vulnerable, and they’re mine to protect. Have been mine ever since Mom walked out. I’ll put aside for a moment the fact they are his goddamn children and focus on the fact he tried to hurt my charges. My boys.

  Unforgivable.

  And then there’s the inevitable guilt. Could I have done more to help him? What if I’d insisted he tell me what he did when he left a year ago, with whom he stayed, what was on his mind? What pushed him to such extreme actions?

  Useless speculation, although my conscience doesn’t care and keeps prodding me like a cattle prong. Nothing can help Dad now, and it’s a miracle me and my brothers made it out alive.

  Zane has been helping me make sure I have custody of my brothers, now that Dad is gone. They can’t take them from me. Only over my dead body.

  And it’s a weary body, still riddled with disease, a bit charred and achy, but I’m still alive, and things are finally, slowly looking up.

  For starters, Tessa is by my side. She never left. And she says she’s staying. We’ve rented an apartment together. For now she’s paying the rent, but I’m working again, and the guys babysit my brothers whenever they can, so I can get extra gigs. Soon I’ll be paying my part, and life will get easier.

  As for the boys… They have their own room, across the hall from us, and I made sure our bedroom has a lock, because sleeping with Tessa means I get to have her naked in my arms all night, and that leads to all sorts of interesting activities I don’t want the boys witnessing.

  They’re fucking ecstatic to have Tessa living with us. They monopolize her so much I’m glad when the guys take them out of the apartment sometimes, so I can spend some quality time with my girl.

  Speaking of whom…

  Tessa enters the kitchen where I’ve been for the past hour, preparing one of her favorite dishes: vegetarian pasta and honey-glazed ribs in the oven. She leans her hip on the counter and grins at me.

  I stop what I’ve been doing just to stare at her. She grows more beautiful by the day, I swear to God. She’s dressed in super-tight jeans and crazy red high heels. She’s trying to find her own style, she says, so she’s trying different ones.

  She looks great whatever she wears—especially if she’s wearing nothing at all—and I’m all for it, especially with the blouse she chose today. It’s also red, and it dips low in the front, showing miles of creamy skin and the swell of her breasts. The sight of them makes my mouth go dry.

  “The boys left,” she says, watching me with her bright eyes. “Tyler says they’re going to a kid’s party, one of Jax’s friends. He said it’s no problem to let them sleep over at their place tonight.”

  “Sounds good.”

  She pushes off the counter and comes to slip her arms around me. I check the oven one last time and turn to pull her to me.

  “Mom will be here any minute now.”

  I wince. I’m trying hard not to remember that we invited Tessa’s mother over for dinner tonight. That woman never liked me, and even more importantly, over the years I had the distinct impression she didn’t pay much attention to Tessa, never took her side.

  But Tessa asked this of me. She wants us to get along. Says her mother has changed.

  We’ll see about that. I’ll have to see it with my own eyes to be convinced.

  Then again, her mom is probably thinking the same about me. A good-for-nothing who was a jerk to her daughter for years, who lost his scholarship, and has no money to even pay the rent.

  Yeah… I guess we’ll have to convince each other.

  “It smells great.” Tessa loops her arms around my neck, pulling me down for a kiss.

  “You smell even better.” The feel of her lips on mine is the best in the world. Her tongue darts out, touching mine, and I groan, hauling her closer. I kiss her until she’s breathless and I’m rock hard and aching for her. I pull back. “Damn. How about moving this show to the bedroom?”

  “I don’t know. Mom will be arriving any second.”

  “We can be fast.”

  She giggles. “Can we?”

  Right. Not sure. I like taking my time with her, kissing her everywhere, making her come again and again with my tongue, my fingers, my dick.

  I let out a long breath, looking into her face. I love the pink on her cheeks, the blue in her eyes, the red of her well-kissed lips. I love her smile, her happiness.

  She deserves to be happy, and I’m gonna do my best to ensure she is, every single day.

  I lean in to kiss those soft lips again, maybe grab her and carry her to the bedroom, when the doorbell rings.

  Dammit.

  Tessa extricates herself from my hold, sends me a wink that makes my dick twitch and goes to answer the door. For myself, I turn to the oven and run the multiplication table through my head, so I don’t scare Tessa’s mom off with the monstrous tent in the front of my pants.

  As I check the ribs and mix the sauce into the drained pasta, I hear footsteps enter the kitchen.

  “Hi, Dylan,” an unfamiliar female voice says from behind me.
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  I take a bracing breath. After all that happened—the sickness, finding the courage to ask Tessa for forgiveness and a second chance, the fire, Dad’s death—this meeting shouldn’t seem too daunting.

  “Mrs. Leon.” I take the hand she offers me, small and white like Tessa’s, decorated with a diamond ring and several plain golden bands. “How are you?”

  See? I can be civil even when I don’t feel like it.

  “Fine, thank you.” She glances at the stove. “Whatever it is Tessa made, it smells delicious.”

  “Dylan cooked,” Tessa says, helping me carry the pots to table in the living room. “For you. He’s a good cook. Better than me.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” I say, carrying the dish with the ribs. “She cooks just fine.”

  Her mother is looking at us, her gaze bouncing from one to the other, her eyes a bit wide. “Really?” she finally manages.

  “Mom is just shocked I can cook at all,” Tessa winks at her. “Right, Mom?”

  “But she thought you were the one who cooked,” I protest, confused and hating how out of my depth I feel. I’m uneasy enough without contradictory statements flying around.

  “She was teasing me,” Tessa says and takes a seat.

  Her mom sighs and takes a seat across from her. “It’s true. I was shocked.”

  This is promising to be a long, long evening, I think, as I serve the food and sit down with them. Gotta have patience. Gotta be Zen, like Zane. Fuck.

  I open a bottle of wine for them, but I stick to water. Not allowed to drink alcohol yet, as I’m still on antibiotics, not until I beat the damn disease one hundred percent.

  Tessa devours the food, so I know she likes it, and her mom also digs in, which is reassuring.

  As for me, I’m too caught up in watching Tessa eat and the way her bra shows through her cleavage when she lifts her fork. My hard-on is back with a vengeance, and all I want is to push her mom politely but firmly out, sweep the dishes off the table and enter Tessa here and now, pound into her until she comes, and I spill inside her, marking her. Filling her.

  Tessa nudges me with her leg, and I tear my gaze off her tits, aware I’ve missed part of the conversation.