Page 93 of Light

Reece

I never thought I’d ever hear a sound worse than Emma’s screams after hours of Faline’s torture. She’d already spent hours on the bitch’s table by the time I found out where she was, and when I finally broke into that lab inside the Consortium’s Rancho Palos Verdes complex, my woman’s pain had turned into a tangible beast on the air—a beast that had devoured my soul like no other torment before—or, I was damn certain, like no agony would again.

Until right now.

The wails of my two little girls are like banshee cries inside a medieval dungeon—despite the fact that the ridge’s underground bunker is outfitted better than most high-end apartments. But the state-of-the-art kitchen, loft-style bunk beds, fit-for-a-queen bathroom, gaming area with theater sound, and reading area with a full library of books can’t diminish the bunker’s biggest trait—and my twins’ hugest trigger.

The fucking thing is underground.

A necessity I have no choice about.

Just like the fate I have to thrust upon them.

“Fuck my life.” I’ve never been one for that trite piece of crap, but in this messed-up moment, nothing feels more fitting. For the rest of my life, those girls are going to hate the hell out of me. For the same time span, I’ll be doing the exact same thing.

My gut roils like a toilet tank filled with bile—especially from my next thought. I actually think about my own father and every wrenching call he had to make for my own good. All the school transfers, the groundings, the disciplinary meetings…hell, even the jail bail-outs. And finally having to tell the biggest lie of them all—faking his own death—just for the chance to gain intel that would keep the whole family safer.

Fatherhood.

It’s not for pussies.

If I survive this night with my heart and soul intact, that’s going on a goddamned T-shirt.

But first, the survival thing.

Which, at this point, is going to be sketchy at best—a certainty that hits my gut like an anvil as the twins’ shrieks cut into the rest of me like shrapnel. And let’s just forget any metaphors for what it feels like to turn and actually look at them again, huddled together on one of the velvet bean bags in the gaming area, a bunch of Minecraft princesses bumping into each other on the screen behind them. We might as well be back in the Biltmore’s elevator, with the two of them staring as if I’m one of the hotel’s ghosts come to life, except this time, their panic has worsened fivefold.

Because I’m worse than a ghost.

I’m the monster responsible for ordering them underground again.

“Dada.”

I don’t turn, pretty certain I’m the only one who can hear the gentle summons. Yeah, bringing the girls back underground like it’s no big deal is wishful thinking on my part. Lux is obsessively devoted to his new sisters, and he knows they don’t like this. If they told him they wanted to fly to the moon just to protest earth altogether, the kid would find a way to make it happen.

On that note, I refocus on pulling two trays of fresh sugar cookies out of the oven. Yeah, they’re a brazen peace offering. And yeah, I personally cut them into the shapes of tutus and toe shoes and then mixed pink and purple frosting for the tops. But I already know they’ll go ignored.

I suck.

Hard.

But goddamnit, there’s no other solution at this point. Not with Todd and Laurel climbing out of their Lexus up at ground level as we speak. Sending the girls away, even with Foley, Archer, and the Bommers in tow, would’ve meant they’d run into the Crists during the journey down the hill, a risk we couldn’t take given Lux’s devotion to his “grandpy.” Hiding the kids somewhere else in the house likely would’ve yielded the same result. This was the fastest solution we could think of, though fast sure as hell didn’t equate to careful or sensitive.

“Dada.”

I look down at the incessant little hand curled atop my wrist. I jerk my sights over, genuinely surprised. He’s not my imagination—but all the best parts of my dreams. “Hey, buddy. What is it? You need more chocolate milk already?”

My son shakes his head until white-blond curls drop into his eyes. He pushes them away with a small grunt of impatience, his mouth set in a grim pout. “Mis ‘n’ Ira scared.”

I crouch down and grip his proud little shoulders. They’re as tense as if the weight of the world rests on them—because to his mind, his sisters’ distress is the same thing. “I know,” I concede with as much calm as possible. “They’re having memories of when we first found them. Do you remember all that?”

A steady nod. The wisdom of the ages in his eyes. It’s not fucking fair for a kid his age, even at his psychological maturity instead of his physical one, to be shouldering so much knowledge of the world’s ugliness. He should be over in front of that monitor, telling his sisters he’s going to create a few Minecraft monsters to eat their princesses, not pickling several jars with his stress over their wall-jostling fear. “They came out of the hole. I had to tell ’em it was okay not to be in there.”

“And now, because the bunker is underneath the ground, they think we’re putting them back in the hole.”

His forehead gains some furrows. “But we’re not!” he argues. “And the bunker is fun!”

A few drops of amusement spread their way into my pond of guilt and dread. “Well, we know that, buddy, but they don’t. And it’ll only be for a few hours, I promise.”