by Rina Kent
A long silence takes over the room. Dylan and I share a glance.
Aaron is guilty of charge. He did well hiding her, though. How long would it have passed my notice if he didn’t get shot?
“Kane is fucking dead.” Aaron’s voice is strangled, but it seems to be due to unsaid words rather than pain. I’m seeing parts of him that I’ve rarely witnessed since Father’s death.
“It’s not Kane’s fault.” I lean against the bed’s frame. “When I caught up to you and saw you drowning in your own blood, she caught my attention through the window crying your name.”
Aaron’s brows furrow, sweat forms on his forehead. This time it’s due to the effort he makes to move. Dylan and I support him. He refuses help at first, being the little twat he is, but accepts assistance begrudgingly after he almost falls to his face.
“She’s a feisty one.” I hand him trousers as he unclasps the hospital gown. “You make a good pair.”
Despite struggling to put his feet in the trousers without falling unconscious, Aaron still manages a glare at me, jaw clenching. “Fuck. Off.”
“She’s an innocent girl.” Dylan’s voice isn’t as carefree as mine. “When did you start kidnapping innocent girls?”
“It’s...” Aaron collapses onto the bed, coughing and panting as if putting his trousers on equalled running a marathon. His words come out in short breaths. “It’s not girls. It’s only her.”
“That’s not the point.” Dylan towers over him. “What will you do with her, huh? We certainly won’t let you kill an innocent girl. The only alternative is letting her go which means she will testify against you and send you to prison. It may take all the damn judges we’ve gathered so far to save your arse from this one. Great job in ruining years of our effort.”
I stare at Dylan. I know Aaron’s foolishness will delay our revenge, but this isn’t the right time to call him out on it. He can barely blink straight.
“Can we have this conversation after I’m out of here and injected with copious amount of morphine?” Aaron puts one hand in his shirt but struggles to pull it through.
With a sigh, Dylan throws his hand in dismissal.
I help Aaron put the rest of his clothes on. He doesn’t seem to have the energy to breathe right.
He slumps into a wheelchair for Dylan and I to escort him out of the hospital. If we insist on keeping him here, he’ll probably escape in the middle of the night and aggravate his wound. Better keep him on the estate’s grounds and under my watch.
As I wheel him out of hospital, Aaron turns around slowly, shoulders tense. “What did you do to her?”
I smile. “She’s as you left her.”
He nods, a wave of relief seems to wash over his face and relax his limbs.
Interesting.
Who said Aaron is long gone? I may fulfil Father’s wishes after all— without the asylum.
All I have to do is use the crack in Aaron’s previously impenetrable armour; Mae.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mae
Arthur doesn’t look at me anymore. It’s like I’m a contagious disease he’s afraid to catch. My presence seems to suffocate him, disintegrating him inch by inch. I hate this. I despise how he subtly avoids me. Yes, I’m aware he’s doing so to protect me from himself. Yet, I abhor the gloominess in his eyes. It feels as if he’s erasing me. Writing me off. The screams of the women deafen me every night. I can no longer sleep. The image of Arthur doing things to them, that only I should be entitled to, haunts me. I was the one who suggested the women so he wouldn’t draw my blood. It’s been years, I should’ve been used to this. It turns out I’m not. I need them gone.
Tonight, I’ll drive them all away. Arthur is mine, and I’ll retrieve what’s mine. I know he wouldn’t want to touch me, but I’m also aware that he can’t resist me. If letting him draw my blood will make us both alive again, then I’ll willingly let him. I’ve been dead for a long time already.
I turn the page for the following entry. There’s nothing. What?! Is this it? Why did Eva stop writing? Ugh. I want to know what happened.
The latest entries were dedicated to Eva’s void. She was on the edge of herself, wanting Arthur’s attention and getting nothing but neglect. The last entry was the first time in months she decided to act. All this happened while Aaron was spending most his time with Alexander. Eva seemed to be relieved for that fact. After all, Aaron was another burden in her lifeless existence.
I sigh and stare outside from my window. Dark grey clouds haven’t stopped releasing their contents, slumping the estate in a gloomy rainy afternoon. Droplets of water blur the glass, but the view of the outside terrace’s still clear. If there had been any blood left on the grass, then the downpour will have washed it away. It feels like years since I saw Aaron doused in his blood. The exact period is days— judging from the number of meals Kane brought me.
I begged him to tell me about Aaron’s condition, but like a damn robot, he nodded and left without a word every time. Until yesterday. He slipped a tiny piece of paper under the spoon. ‘He’s out of danger. Still hasn’t regained consciousness.’ I would’ve hugged Kane if I weren’t too afraid he would knock me on my butt.
Aaron lives. My prayers were answered.
Then... what? What do I do once he returns? It doesn’t really matter. All I want is to see him outside of that blood pool. Breathing. Alive.
The past few days, all I could sketch were fragments of rubbish. My muse abandoned me ever since Aaron was shot.
I don’t know what to feel about that.
Indistinct chatter in the hall pulls me from my thoughts. I hide the journal under the pillow and get out of my room. Kane’s bulky silhouette stands in front of Aaron’s bedroom. When his gaze meets mine, he nods, a little smile plays on his lips as he motions for me to go inside.
He’s back?
My steps are inaudible to my own ears as I brush past Kane. Tristan and Dylan stand by the entrance. Their intense stares fall on me, but they’re not the reason I freeze in place.
It’s Aaron, sitting on the edge of his bed in one of his black suits. Only this time, it doesn’t outline his powerful physique. His shoulders hunch forward, the jacket barely clings to them. He definitely lost weight. His face is a pale shade of white as if whatever medication they gave him bleached his skin. His full lips have lost their beauty, covered with dry cracks. But his eyes, God, his eyes seem to have sunk into their sockets, leaving place for dark holes instead.
When his gaze bores into mine, there’s an unusual softness in it. If I wasn’t being delusional, I would call it relief.
I confront Tristan. “How can you bring him back when he’s half dead?” I point at Aaron’s irregular breathing. He’s been panting ever since I entered. “What kind of a brother are you?”
Tristan glances between Dylan and Aaron, amusement glinting his eyes. “See? I told you she’s feisty.”
A small smile tugs on Dylan’s lips, but he says nothing.
Screw these bastards. Aaron appears like he took a trip to hell and came back. Why did they discharge him so soon? Aren’t they worried about him?
“He’s not my brother.” A strangled hoarse voice similar to Aaron’s pulls my attention. The words escape his lips with exhausted breaths. “He’s my cousin.”
I glance at Tristan then at Aaron. They’re not brothers? It’s hard to believe with all the similarities they share. They look as if they’ve been painted by the same veteran artist.
“My father adopted him.” Tristan smiles, throwing a side glare at Aaron. “He’s legally my brother.”
Oh. Tristan must be Alexander’s son. Nevertheless... “How
could you let him out in this state?” I shout.
“He insisted.” Tristan uses his gentleman voice, both hands in his trousers’ pockets, seeming unaffected by my outburst. “There isn’t much they can do for him anymore. Nothing that he can’t do himself, anyway.”
I tap my foot on the ground. “Why not? It’s not like he’s a doctor.”
“He is.” Dylan smiles and, when he sees my perplexed expression, continues. “Aaron has his general practitioner degree and cut off in the midst of his trauma surgery residency.”
I stumble back two steps as I glance between the three men, probably looking like an idiot. Aaron is a doctor? Holy. Hell.
“Get out.” Despite the tiredness and hoarseness in his voice, the harshness of Aaron’s order still comes through.
Tristan nods once before leaving. Dylan, on the other hand, pierces Aaron with a stern gaze. “This isn’t over.”
Aaron glares at Dylan as the latter strolls out and closes the door behind him.
Except for Aaron’s ragged breaths, silence hugs the room in a tight embrace. It pulsates between us in a million unsaid words.
What should I do? Leave, too? But I don’t want to. Do I go to him? What do I say?
A wince escapes Aaron as he tries to remove his jacket. He grits his teeth until his jaw ticks, but he still can’t remove the piece of clothing. My feet move to him without thoughts.
A mixture of hospital smell and Aaron’s enticing cedar hits me as soon as I stand before him. I take a deep breath to calm my insides before helping him out of his jacket. God. He’s become so thin, pale, and... sick. He can’t breathe straight, his chest raises and falls in an irregular pace.
The idiot. He needs help. What type of doctor is he?
He swallows a few times, his hand moves to unbutton his shirt. I push it aside, harsher than intended, and take over the task. “You’re obviously not doing well. Why would you discharge yourself? Oh, God—” My voice breaks at the view of a large bandage covering his torso, blood soaking half of it.
“It’s dried.” Aaron heaves. “Can you hand me the box on the nightstand?”
I keep glancing at the bandage, half expecting the dry blood to transform into the pool that surrounded Aaron the day he was shot. Shaking my heard, I give him the white box.
Aaron’s shaky fingers are unable to open the box. He curses after multiple tries, sweat beaming on his forehead. When he finally opens it, a few tiny bottles and new plastic needles come into view. Aaron’s lean fingers are too weak, they can’t rip the plastic off the bottles.
Witnessing his disastrous state should’ve made me happy. Others would mock him for it and revel in his distress, like he enjoys others’ weaknesses. Yet, I’m not that type of person. Seeing this version of Aaron feels like someone pierced through my heart and left a deep, painful hole in their wake.
“Do you want me to help?” I ask in a tentative voice. “I don’t know how, but I’m a fast learner.”
He releases a heavy sigh and hands me the box. He groans as he shakes his shirt away.
I swallow at the partial view of his chiselled muscles. Good lord. A bandage covers half of his chest, but he still doesn’t look bad. There are several scars marring his abdomen and upper chest. Are those knife cuts? This isn’t the first time he’s been hurt, is it? The black void in my heart expands at the thought. What kind of unfortunate life had he lived thus far?
“Mae.”
My attention snaps to the sound of my softly spoken name. Aaron heaves the next words. “I need that morphine now if you don’t mind.”
“Ah, okay.” I blurt, grabbing a syringe and a little bottle. “What do I do?”
I follow his clipped instructions of filling the syringe, releasing air and other technical terms.
He taps on a blue spot in his arm. “Disinfect. One go. Here.”
My hands tremble as I sit beside him. What if I fail and hurt him instead? I know nothing about medication, but I assume morphine is dangerous stuff.
“Hey, steady.” Aaron’s warm hands cover my shaky one. I don’t know if it’s because of the softness in his eyes, the calmness in his expression, or the warmth of his small smile, but my tremors subside a little.
God. He could’ve died. I could’ve never seen that smile again.
“I can do it.” My words are confident. This is the least I can do.
He releases my hand. “I may start blubbering after this. Never mind me.”
Once I inject him, he crawls into the bed. It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep.
I stand by his side and pull the cover over him. Black ink on the side of his left shoulder stops me in my tracks. A tattoo? Somehow, Aaron doesn’t strike me as a tattoos’ person, but what do I know, anyway? Surprises seem endless with this man.
I lean close. It’s a bar code of some sorts, the size of a finger. The only scribbled thing within it is the number ‘111’. I frown. What the hell is this? A branding? Does it have a special meaning?
“It’s an assassin’s identification code.” Tristan’s monotonic voice comes from the doorway. I jolt, swaying back. He nearly made my heart drop to my feet.
After standing straight, I blink. “Are you guys part of the mafia?”
“No.” He smiles, but there’s nothing happy about it. The pain and hatred in his eyes come through unmasked. “We were part of an organisation called The Pit. They kidnapped us as children and turned us into killing machines.”
“Oh, God.” I gasp before putting my hands in front of my mouth.
Tristan motions to the door. “Do you wish to know more? I’m sure Aaron isn’t into sharing the story of his life.”
“But...” I glance at Aaron’s sleeping form. He seems peaceful now, but still too pale to be considered normal.
“Don’t worry about him,” Tristan says in a light tone. “The medication will keep him out for some time. There’s nothing you can do to help him while he sleeps.”
He’s right. I take one last look at Aaron before following Tristan out. This is possibly the only opportunity to find out more about Aaron after Eva’s journal.
Unless... I narrow my eyes at Tristan’s broad back as we walk into my room. Is he trying to manipulate me like the other time? I don’t trust Tristan. Under that charming smile hides a cunning fox.
There’s something mystic, yet completely wrong about the whole Rhodes family.
The journal is splayed on the bed. My lips part. I hid it, didn’t I?
“Please have a seat.” Tristan motions to the bed as he takes the opposite chair.
My heart almost beats out of my chest. I gulp as I ease at the edge of the bed. “A-are you going to tell Aaron about the journal?”
He shakes his head, his expression’s coaxing, like Owen’s. “It won’t be a good idea. As a matter of fact, I’m glad it ended up in your hands, it reduces some of the storytelling.”
I bite my lip, my nails clink together in my lap. Screw it. I don’t care if Tristan is manipulating me. “Do you know why Eva didn’t continue writing?” I blurt.
Tristan sits tall in his chair, his dark eyes meet mine. When he speaks, the chillness of his voice sends frost down my spine. “As Aunt Eva predicted, Uncle Arthur’s control slipped. The day of her last entry was the day Uncle Arthur killed her then killed himself, leaving Aaron parentless. The only good thing the tragedy brought was giving Aaron his voice back. Although it only came from the shock of seeing his parents dead. That’s when Father adopted him. Aaron was raised with us, barely coping with what happened. Then, grandmother sent us to a boarding school, following our lineage’s customs. But only my little sister and I went t
o the school. Aaron was sent to a mental institute instead. An underground illegal ward that used unorthodox methods and experimented on their patients, age didn’t matter. The old hag always hated Aaron. Uncle Arthur and Aunt Ariel belittled her and made her feel insignificant. For her, Aaron was one of them. When Father found out, about a month later, he brought us all back home. Only Aaron seemed to have lost a part of himself in that place. He became hollow and lifeless. Nothing like a child, more like Uncle Arthur and Aunt Ariel trapped in a little boy’s body.”
Tristan goes quiet. As if retelling the memories weighed on him as much as it tore me apart. I wipe at the tears stroking my cheeks. God, why does a person have to go through all of that? He was only a little boy. An innocent kid. I hug my waist, afraid to hear the rest, yet I murmur, “And then?”
Tristan sucks in a deep breath. Although I never thought it possible, his face darkens further. “Then we were ambushed during a quiet family lunch. Our entire family and our partners’, The Harts, were killed except for me, Aaron, and Dylan. We were taken into The Pit and made into assassins. Dylan and I were twelve. Aaron was ten. We only escaped about eight years later by the help of our guards who spent all those years looking for us. We’ve been rebuilding our families’ names since then.”
Silence again. My tears flow unchecked this time. I don’t even attempt to wipe them. What destiny is that? Is that what Aaron meant the other day by saying the price of the estate is the soul of everyone living inside it? They did kill everyone but him, Tristan, and Dylan. Does that mean they won’t stop until they kill the three of them?
“Will they send more people to kill Aaron?” My murmur’s haunted.
“They could try. I have a plan to bring them all down soon.” Tristan supports his elbows with his thighs as he leans close. “For that, I need your help, Mae.”
“Me?” My voice comes out harsher than intended.
“Aaron suffers from a rare case of psychosis similar to schizophrenia. Since he refuses treatment, I don’t know how serious it is or what form it takes. But I’m positive that it’s spiralling out of control. If I force him into treatment, I will only aggravate his state. But if I cannot ensure his safety, we will be easy prey to The Pit’s assassins and the ones who betrayed our family.” He pauses, voice deepening. “That’s where you come in. I know Aaron enough and I have never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. You’re special to him. If anyone can convince him, then it’s probably you.”