Broken Knight (All Saints High 2)

Two hearts, two lives, and too many missed opportunities.

“I can’t live without you,” he croaked, flipping my palm so it faced him and putting it to his lips, tracing every line inside it with his hot mouth.

“So don’t.”

“But I also can’t contain all this pain, Moonshine.” He let out a desperate breath.

I stared at him boldly, perhaps more courageously than I ever had before. I could feel the strength oozing from me.

“Then let me carry some of it, too.”

It was just a simple white gown.

“A long, satin chemise,” Aunt Emilia had called it.

Like I had any goddamn clue what the fuck that was supposed to mean.

I stared at it, hung alone in an entirely empty section of the massive walk-in closet my father had built for my mother with his own hands, even though she was never big on clothes.

“Get her the white gown. It’s her favorite. She picked it exactly for this occasion,” Aunt Em had said to me.

Like the occasion was a wedding or someone’s bar mitzvah. The detail to which my mother had gone to plan her own death made me sick to my stomach.

Frazzled, I reached for the hanger. My fingers were shaky. Withdrawal was a bitch even though they’d kept me in the hospital a few days and given me a ton of shit to help wean me off all the crap in my system.

I’d had every single goddamn symptom in the book—shaky hands, fever, sleepless nights, and blood pressure so low, it’d make a thrice-dead corpse proud. I was still taking medication that was supposed to help, and Dad had slapped me with a twice-a-week therapist for coping, maintenance, and all the other bullshit.

I’d hated every single part of my existence during those days in the hospital—especially because it kept me away from Mom. But I also finally knew I had no choice. There were so many things on the line. My family. Luna. My friends. Oh, also, my fucking existence.

So, I hadn’t sipped a drop of alcohol in six days—this was my seventh. Pills were out of the question, too. Only reason I hadn’t had a seizure and died from the abrupt cut off was, I suspected, that I wasn’t asshole enough to steal Mom’s thunder.

After I was discharged from the hospital, Luna and Vaughn had walked into my house, emptied the alcohol shelves and medicine cabinets, and then proceeded to empty all the mouthwash bottles and throw them in the trash. They’d concluded by double-locking the wine cellar downstairs. Vaughn had installed the second lock and did a jacked-up job, too. My dad was going to kill him for chipping both the door and the frame when he was finally in a mood to pay attention to anything that wasn’t Mom.

Which, let’s be honest, wasn’t going to be anytime soon.

On the third try, I managed to snag the dress from the hanger. Instead of bringing it straight to Dad, who was to help her into it, I just clutched it between my fingers, staring.

I needed a few more moments in this room, knowing what was about to happen next was going to put everything in motion and change my life forever.

My mother was downstairs, getting ready for her bath. She was back home. She was awake. After a week of back and forth, Dad had made the decision to take her out of her chemically induced coma so she could say goodbye. He’d made it clear—after fighting with the entire hospital staff and having Vicious, Trent, and Jaime walking the corridor with a harem of lawyers—that my mother was going to go peacefully, as she wished.

At home.

In her favorite white gown.

Surrounded by her loved ones.

And only after saying goodbye to each of us, personally.

I knew why Dad had given me the task of bringing the gown. He could have asked anyone. Like Emilia, who was so good at being practical and moving things around. Or Luna, who’d stepped up and was resilient, quiet, and determined to help. He could have asked Edie, or Melody, or any of his friends. But he’d asked me.

He wanted me to be a part of this.

The second man of the house.

I brought the gown to my nose, closed my eyes, and inhaled deeply. It smelled like Mom—freshly baked goods, vanilla, citrus shampoo, and her sweet, natural scent.

Shuddering, I stepped back, opened the door, and stepped out of the walk-in closet, fingering the wood of the doorframe. I paused when I felt the uneven surface under my fingertips and looked sideways, frowning.

Carved on the dark wood, sloppily, like it was done with car keys, were the words that had kept me from drinking myself to death for the past six days. The words I couldn’t bear not hearing Luna say again.

Ride or die.

I’d once asked my sister, Emilia, what it felt like.