And I Love You the Most (This Love Hurts 3)

This message, however, he deserves to receive in person and with full clarity.

With my jaw firmly clenched and the sound of the lock unclicking, I wait for the door to open, but it doesn’t.

It takes me a moment to realize he must’ve seen me in the peephole and decided to unlock the door and wait.

How long has it been since that very thought didn’t spike fear through me? The last thing I’ve ever wanted is to be seen.

Turning the knob slowly, I gently push the door open to find the daylight scattered in stripes from the blinds and laying across my brother’s figure. Motionless on the couch, he stares up at me. The sight of him disgusts me to the point that I nearly snarl.

In nothing but dark gray sweatpants, he’s planted himself in the corner chair, a bottle of whiskey on the table and the glass in his hand.

He’s nothing if not the image of a man who’s given up. The shadow of stubble on his jaw nearly matches the darkness under his blue gaze.

“Contacts?” he questions with a horrid half smile that’s undoubtedly forced. I take my time walking in and closing the door behind me. An air of despair lingers around my brother, the stench of it repugnant.

He’s given up on her. He believes her to be dead. The realization only spikes my anger that much more. “So a beard and contacts is what you do to go unrecognized,” he comments as I take a seat across from him. I can imagine a different world, one where I looked just like him. Pathetic and distraught, and not at all ashamed to show it. I’ve never been so grateful to be the opposite of my brother. To be the one taken and shown what the real world was like.

He was the good and I was the bad, but together, we made the world a better place. Or so I thought.

“I had one of them,” I say, commenting on the purpose of bothering to come here. “One of the men who took her.” My throat goes tight and the air leaves my lungs in the single word her. I’ll be damned if it doesn’t hurt to speak of the recent events.

“And?” Hope drenches the single word and the leather chair groans as he leans forward in anticipation. I’ve no doubt he assumes I have the information we need. “What did he say?” he questions further, suddenly eager. Maybe he hasn’t given up. I’m not sure why, but it makes the pain strike my chest violently. My back remains to him as I stare out of the window of this shitty cheap hotel room, knowing she stood in a room like this only days ago. Only sunsets ago she was here, and she was well. Maybe distraught and confused, but she was safe from what ails us.

With my head hanging lower, I stalk toward the end of the room and stare at the small fridge, envisioning the one in Cody’s loft instead. She closed her eyes for me and we shared our first kiss in that kitchen. I can still feel the warmth of her against my embrace.

Without an answer from me, my brother rises, his voiced raised as he practically yells, “What did he say?”

“Nothing,” I answer coldly, my mind refusing to move from where I know she once was. She was there for the taking, and I didn’t do what I should have. I left her in the safety and comfort of my brother. I failed her, thinking that what they had would be better for her than what I could offer her. If only I could go back.

“Nothing?” The word sounds incredulous from my brother’s mouth.

It only sends the irritation to skitter across my expression and the thoughts of what once was possible vanish. She’s gone and I’m not the only one to blame.

My hand clenches at my side, so tight the skin turns white against my knuckles. With my eyes narrowed I confess, “He had a seizure before I could finish my interrogation.”

Light dims from my brother’s gaze, the anger he felt a moment ago vanishes and the same dejected look he wore when I first came in reigns once again.

The ice in the tumbler clinks as he falls back in his seat. He doesn’t bother to wipe the spilled alcohol from his hand as he runs it down his face.

He’s exhausted, as am I. But he’s given in and that’s unacceptable. He’s not the half of me I used to know.

“This is your fault.” I spit the accusation at him. His gaze is nothing but daggers as he raises them to me. Venom lays between us, and the tension thickens from its bite.

“My fault?” He practically sneers the question.

“I should have known better than to leave her.” I hesitate to say it, the words breaking something deep down inside of me and spilling a darkness I haven’t let myself feel before. Jealousy mixes with the rage and disappointment as I add, “I should have known better than to leave her with you.”