Page 29 of Shattered In Darkness

I ring the doorbell.

It’s Sophie who opens the door. She’s in sweats, her hair in a messy bun, eyes wide with concern.

“Hey,” she says. Her voice is a balm I don’t deserve. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “I tripped earlier and hit my face on the table. Clumsiest bitch alive. I haven’t been feeling great.”

She scans my face. She knows I’m lying. She always knows, but she never calls me on it. She just pulls me inside with a gentle hand on my arm, as if I might break.

The house is painfully quiet. Brody is stretched out on the couch, all angles and darkness, scrolling on his phone. He looks up when I come in, his eyes cold, stormy, already picking me apart.

He snorts. “Never knew furniture could punch back.”

I roll my eyes. “Fuck off, Brody.”

“Maybe you should try falling up the stairs next time. Even the head trauma might be an improvement.”

He’s cruel, always has been. But it stings more tonight.

Sophie shoots him a murderous glare. “Brody.”

He shrugs, no apology in it. Setting his phone aside, he watches me, waiting for me to say why I came over here in the middle of the night.

I sink into the armchair, legs crossed, trying to look casual. “I just—needed to get out. The house was giving me cabin fever.”

Sophie softens instantly. “Do you want tea? Or snacks?”

I grin at her, trying to be playful. “No, I want to go out. Get trashed. Maybe even dance.” My chest thrums with anticipation. I need chaos, I want to be reckless.

She lights up. “There’s that new club downtown. Velvet.”

Brody’s eyes narrow. “Velvet.”

“Yeah,” Sophie says. “The one with the neon sign. Supposed to be impossible to get into, but Lola’s face could get us anywhere.”

I smooth my hair, all performative confidence, but the compliment lands flat. I’m so sick of being wanted only for a body that doesn’t even feel like mine.

“Sounds fun,” I say. “Let’s do it. I’m bored out of my skull.”

Brody tilts his head, a predator considering his prey. “Getting drunk and pawed at by losers is your new hobby?”

I cross my arms, challenging him. “You got a problem with it?”

He leans back, arms folded, and his shirt stretches tight across his chest. “No. Do whatever the fuck you want. Doesn’t matter to me.”

Liar. The air between us ripples with hostility, history, more than either of us will say out loud.

Sophie steps between us, voice light, defusing. “Why don’t you come too, Brody? Be our—what’s the word—bodyguard.”

She winks at me and I play along. “Yeah, keep the creeps away.”

He hesitates just half a second. Then: “Fine. But I’m not going to chase after you if you get yourself killed.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to.”

He stands, crosses to the stairs. His movements are liquid violence, all coiled muscle and threat. “Give me five minutes.”

He disappears upstairs. Sophie grabs my hand, leads me to her room. She has always been the best at normal. The best at pretending.