Chapter 2

Black leather boots stopped right in front of me.

Mina knew exactly who he was. Her voice shook—like one wrong word would get her killed.

“Mr. Blackwood… I’m so sorry we interrupted your reunion with Miss Sienna. It’s all this idiot’s fault. I’ll have the best bottle sent over right away.”

She grabbed my arm and twisted hard, nails digging in.

It didn’t even compare to the time blood traders cracked my ribs.

But I still hunched my shoulders—because my stomach felt like it was being wrung out.

My brother frowned, impatient.

“Enough.”

He pointed at me, voice calm—like he was reading out a sentence.

“You broke it. So you’re cleaning it.”

“All the glass in this hallway—pick it up with your hands.”

“And if my sister steps on even one piece—”

he paused, then finished flatly,

“—you swallow one.”

The hallway was covered in thick soundproof carpet.

Glass sank into the fibers. It was hard to see. Hard to find.

So I dropped to my knees and started feeling around with my palms—inch by inch.

Every swipe cut me.

Every cut shoved me right back into five years of humiliation.

Sienna narrowed her eyes at my back. Then she hooked her arm around his and whined sweetly,

“Brother, I’m tired.”

“Needy little thing.” His voice softened instantly. “I’ll carry you out. It’s dangerous here.”

Those black boots stepped right onto my hand.

Pressed down.

Twisted.

Then walked on like I was nothing.

I stayed on my knees, staring at the glass buried in my skin.

I cried.

And then I laughed.

Mina went pale.

“What’s wrong with you? Why is your nose bleeding?!”

I staggered up and wiped my face with my sleeve.

Blood smeared the edge of my mask. The metallic smell hit the back of my throat.

I heard myself say it—so quiet it barely counted as a voice:

“I’m probably… dying.”

I didn’t look at Mina again. I just walked out, leaving drops of blood behind me.

Back in that cramped rental, I pushed the door open—and something smashed in the kitchen.

My brother was on the floor, trying to haul himself up from a tipped wheelchair.

When he saw me, he looked like a kid caught doing something wrong. His eyes went red.

“Lyra… I was just trying to make you something to eat…”

“I’m useless,” he choked out. “I’m trash.”

His words slurred. Tears and spit ran down his face.

He looked exactly like a man who’d been disabled for years—helpless, breaking, pathetic.

And it hit me—

before he was “diagnosed,” he had a serious cleanliness obsession.

Washed his hands twenty times a day. Couldn’t stand a speck of dust on his clothes.

But for Sienna?

He could live in this filthy, suffocating hell with me for five straight years.

Five years.

I’d been fooled by his acting.

I’d turned myself into a complete clown.

In that moment, I wanted to rip his chest open and see what was inside—

blood and flesh… or a cold stone.

When I didn’t say anything, he lowered his head, voice trembling.

“Do you hate me now?”

“I get it… I’m a burden. I can’t keep dragging you down.”

“Just go,” he whispered. “Don’t worry about me. Let me rot.”

He sat there in the mess, gripping the wheelchair handles so hard his veins bulged—still “unable” to get up.

I walked over anyway.

I righted the wheelchair.

I helped him back into it.

I grabbed a towel and wiped his face and hands clean.

I’d done it for five years. My body knew the routine better than my brain.

Then he grabbed my wrist.

He saw the cuts on my palm—and his eyes filled with a kind of panic that almost looked real.

“How did this happen?” he snapped. “Who did this to you?!”

I stared straight into his eyes.

There was still warmth in them.

The same warmth I used to rely on.

The bitterness in my chest rose so high it nearly spilled out of my throat.

I said softly,

“Yeah.”

“I got bullied by someone who looked a lot like you.”

I paused, watching his face, then added—slow, like sliding a knife in to test if his heart was stone:

“At Silver Fang Club.”