Page 81 of Top Shelf

She wants to know the truth about that night.

20

RONAN

The house is quiet.

There is the low thrum of the fridge, the hum of the heating vents kicking in, and the gentle rustle of leaves brushing against the windows, so it isn’t silent. But there is a charged, anticipatory quiet, like the hush before a storm.

Wren is currently perched on the edge of the couch, like she’s not sure she’s allowed to take up space. Her hands rest in her lap, fingers curled into the hem of her sweater while her eyes track each of us in turn.

She’s here.

Fuck, she’s really here.

And we’re not going to fuck this up.

I exchange a look with Lucian, and with a curt nod, he moves into the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge. Silas disappears into the hallway and returns a second later with a blanket from the linen closet. It’s clean—thank fuck—but a little worn around the edges. He offers it to her without a word, and she takes it with a small nod.

As though suddenly noticing the mess of the place, I grab the laundry off the other couch and sweep the worst of theclutter off the coffee table—old takeout containers, half-read textbooks, a few of my game notebooks. None of us are house-proud, but if we’d known tonight would be the night, we would have tidied up a little, aired the place out, maybe even lit a damn candle or something. I dunno. Whatever would make her feel more at ease, more at home here. Not that Wren seems to mind. She’s barely given the mess a second glance.

I keep one eye on her as I move around, noticing how she tucks the blanket over her lap as though she needs that extra layer of protection against the world. She hasn’t said a single word since she showed up with Silas, and despite the nerves clearly eating away at her, her shoulders are squared in resolve, her spine straight. She came here to face what happened that night. The memories she lost. And she’s determined to see it through.

I’d hoped we’d eventually end up here. That she would find the strength that’s always been inside her to face that night. That she’d stop running from what happened, stop running from us. Yet, I still can’t fully wrap my head around the fact that she’s here. That she’s ready to listen. That she’s prepared to accept we aren’t the ones responsible. Because that is what this ultimately means.

Lucian returns with a glass of water, complete with a slice of lemon. God knows where the hell he found that. Kneeling, he places it carefully into her hands. His movements are uncharacteristically gentle, the sharp lines of him softened. Lucian is not soft. He’s all knives and raw instincts, forged in shadow. But for her? He’s willing to bend. It’s not a sight I thought I’d ever witness. Not when it comes to him.

He murmurs something too low for me to hear, then brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers linger there for half a second too long before he withdraws, although he remains kneeling before her as though reluctant to pull away entirely.

Surprisingly, his nearness seems to relax her somewhat. Hopefully, tonight will be healing for Wren, but the only way out is through, and we all know that’s the hardest path to take. The darkest. The one that rips you open, tears you apart until you have no idea how you’re going to put yourself back together again.

Except, we will be here to ensure Wren makes it out the other side. To make sure she finds her way back.

Lucian eventually moves to sit at her side, leaving barely a sliver of space between his body and hers. Silas takes the vacant spot on her other side, hesitating only slightly before taking her free hand and drawing something that makes her shudder, but also has her sitting straighter, looking more determined.

Curious.

Without a word said, it’s been decided that I’ll take the lead. That I’ll be the one to do the talking. Stepping forward, I lower myself onto the edge of the coffee table directly opposite her, so I can face her fully. I need to see her every reaction, her every thought as I share this with her. “You sure you want to do this?”

Her throat works around the answer. “Yes.”

I spare one final glance at the others. They nod in silent agreement.

Then I begin.

The first thing that hits me when we turn onto Athletes Row is the music.

Bass-heavy, thudding down the block like a heartbeat on a bender. People spill across the lawns and into the street, red solo cups raised like war banners, voices hoarse from shouting over bad remixes and bitter beer. The air is thick with sweat, cheapvodka, and something burnt from the grill someone abandoned two hours ago.

BSU’s homecoming parties always look like this—rowdy, unhinged, loud as hell. We’re still riding the high from the game, even though we lost by one in overtime. It was one hell of a match, though. Clean hits, sharp plays, and just enough tension to keep it from being friendly. The rivalry between Valehurst and BSU might run deep, but tonight, the ice stayed respectful. Mostly.

We pass several houses where the windowpanes literally vibrate with the force of the speakers blasting various tunes. Girls in crop tops and BSU hoodies dance on porch railings. Guys shout over each other, tossing ping-pong balls and talking shit about whose team’s better.

This might not be our campus, but we’re comfortable here. We know the rhythm. We speak the language. Athletes are athletes, no matter the school, and we are used to spending weekends at other campuses. Regardless of what college it is, the pecking order is the same, and we fit into it with ease.

Finding the busiest house on the street—undoubtedly the one belonging to the hockey team—we push our way through the throng to get inside. In the kitchen, Lucian grabs beers for each of us, passing them out. I toss back a mouthful of my drink, then catch sight of a familiar head of dark curls weaving through the crowd.

“Ethan!” I call, lifting my bottle in greeting.