Three hours I stare at the ceiling, unable to close my eyes, let alone drift off into sleep.
Every time my exhausted body has tried to drag me under, I’ve been ripped back from the clutches of sleep with visions of what Lucas could be doing to my little flame. Every sick, depraved thought brings me closer and closer to losing my fucking mind.
I tug on a shirt and go in search of a drink.
Maybe half a bottle of whiskey will be enough to put me to sleep, even for a few hours.
I hate myself for thinking it.
I need to be alert. I need to be ready to jump into action at any moment, but Killian was right. I’m no good to Ember if my body can’t function because I haven’t let it rest.
I slip my phone into my pocket and head for my office, not wanting to wake Killian on the couch, but when I step into the room, I notice a body in one of the chairs that sits across from the one I normally inhabit.
“What are you doing up?” I ask Max, moving toward the liquor cart in the corner. It’s not often I reach for the bottle, but I think today warrants a drink or two.
“Couldn’t sleep.” He sighs. “My tossing and turning was waking Darius, so I decided to get up.”
I nod as I pour two glasses of my favorite whiskey and cross to the desk, dropping one in front of him before taking the seat beside him.
“Thanks.” Max takes a long drink of the amber liquor before leaning back in his chair.
I follow his lead, allowing the strong liquid to burn my throat. It’s no less than I deserve. This is all my fault, after all. I never should have allowed Ember to walk into that bar.
She seemed so confident, so sure of herself, and I find it really fucking hard to say no to her, but this is one of those times when I should have put my foot down.
“Do you know why Darius and I took Ember in when she came to Vegas?” Max cuts off my thoughts.
“Because she’s one of the best thieves in the country?”
He shakes his head. “No. That’s how I found her, yeah, but when I went to meet her, I knew she needed someone. She looked so fucking sad, so broken. The bandages around her wrists, which she tried to hide beneath a sweater, told me she was running from the demons in her head as much as she was the ones in her past.”
I press my eyes closed and drain the glass. He paints such a clear picture of my girl, and I hate that I contributed to her pain.
“That first meeting, I saw myself in her. I saw the need to have someone in her corner who would go to bat for her, who would protect her, and who would support her through whatever she was going through. Because when I was in college, that was me.” He shakes his head and takes another drink. “For a long time, it felt to me like it would have been easier on everyone if I weren’t here anymore, especially myself. My vice of choice wasn’t cutting, though. It was drugs. It was anything to numb the pain inside my head.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I actually mean it. I’m no stranger to mental health, having had my own set of issues as a kid, but the picture he’s painting is bleak, and I hate the idea that Ember was suffering through all that on her own.
“It worked out for me.” He gives me a sad smile. “I met Darius when I was at my lowest, and he helped me get clean. My therapist said I was one of the few drug addicts she’d ever met who kicked the habit without rigorous treatment programs, and said it was probably because I wasn’t addicted to the drugs themselves, just the rest it gave my body from the emotional pain.
“But when I met Ember, I knew I needed to help her. It turned out to be one of the best things I ever did, right alongside going out the night I met Darius and letting him in.”
“I’m glad she had you guys,” I say truthfully. As selfish as it sounds, I didn’t think I’d want Ember to have other people to lean on, because I always wanted her to choose me.
But I was wrong.
She needs them as well, and I’m weirdly okay with that.
“We have to bring her back, Orion.” He meets my stare with worry-filled eyes. “I have no romantic feelings for Ember, but she feels like a soulmate to me. She’s my best friend.” His voice breaks, and I reach over instinctively, grasping his shoulder in the hope of comforting him.
Fuck, this must be growth, because if I’d heard another man call my woman his soulmate a few months ago, he would have been dead before he could take his next breath.
“We’ll bring her home,” I promise.
He nods and drops his head into his hands, a rough sob filling the space around us, and I press my own eyes closed, warring with the tears that threaten to fall.
My phone buzzes in my pocket at the same time Max’s does across the desk, and we both reach for them, our bodies lockedup tight with hope, only to have that hope demolished by a series of photos we’ve each received and a message from the dead man himself.
Lucas: Doesn’t she look pretty in white?
