Ruin (The Rhodes 1)

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.”