Page 67 of The Game
Alice may have almost lost her life that night, but she also lost a child, and neither of us know how to wrap our heads around a tragedy of that magnitude. Tristan simply avoids her out of misplaced fury; he’s angry she slept with someone else, but he’s never had his heart broken as I have. For me, it rationally makes sense, her needing an outlet, a source of comfort during her time away from us no matter how much it fucking kills me to know that.
In the end, she’s alive, but the cost is almost more than we can all bear. None of us know how to proceed, know what we want, and Tristan has adamantly refused to allow her to see or speak with this Teddy. She hasn’t asked, likely out of courtesy, but I see the haunted look in her eyes; they shared a deep connection, and he’s been ripped from her just as their child has. She’s lost more than we will ever comprehend.
Her golden head bows, the cardigan she wears slipping off her shoulder. The hospital claimed much of her weight, and her emotions have claimed the rest. She’s a ghost haunting these hallowed halls. Even before, after losing her mother and our father, there was still a spark of life in her.
Now, I fear she will never be the same, will never recover, will never shelter and cultivate that flame again. So many truths were spilled that night, but there is still so much we do not know. Asking her feels like we’d be unintentionally pushing her further away from us, but giving her too much space feels just as devastating.
Setting aside my drink, I stalk toward her, stealthy despite the pain that flares through my knee still. After taking the drill to Dmitry’s temple that night, and finding Haddie dead, I’d felt helpless. All the souls I wish to claim are gone, hidden away by Teddy; a man named Daniel, and Alice’s grandfather, Richard. Finding that little bastard is nearly impossible, for even Jonah Fordson has struggled to best all the encryptions keeping him hidden.
Pausing behind her with my hands shoved in my pockets, she sniffs and moves her head slightly, my frame reflected in the window.
“I’ll make dinner,” she says softly, her voice dead. It pierces my heart and makes my anger flare before it settles in my veins.
“No,babochka. Rest.”
Her head drops again upon hearing our name for her. I have to wonder if she loathes it now, associates it with something negative. I’ve no idea what they put her through, and the one time we asked, she left for the night. We’d been afraid until Jonah had called to say she was crashing with him. At least she’s found solace in one person, however odd her choice seems to me.
“I’m tired of resting,” she says, voice hoarse. Slipping my hand from my pocket, I reach for her before I pause, fingers outstretched and suspended in the air before I drop my hand, knowing better than to touch her. The nightmares began soon after the hospital, and the first time I attempted to comfort her physically, she’d landed a right hook across my jaw that was surprisingly forceful.
“I’ll help you, then.”
“No thank you.”
“Alice,” I sigh in exasperation. Her shoulders hunch up, tensing, and though I want to push her out of anger, I know that’s selfish of me, so I let my words die in my throat. My eyes home in on her phone as it lights up in the pale sunset, Ellie’s name framed by books flashing on her lock screen. Alice shifts to stand, not sparing me a glance as she walks away to seal herself into her room.
I find some comfort in knowing she’s speaking with Ellie, for I feel both girls could use it. They’ve not seen one another since everything has happened, and with Aria completely hidden away by Maks and Josie unaware and in California for school, she has no friends.
Turning, I sit in her spot and stare after her into the darkened hallway, the warmth from her skin seeping into mine, the one small connection I’ve felt since holding her limp hand in the hospital. Watching the woman you love suffer, seeing her in a coma and knowing that when she awoke you’d have to tell her all the horrifying details of what she endured…
It hurts worse than getting a railroad spike pounded into my knee, that’s for fucking sure.
The garage door slams, the squelch of Tristan’s boots on the marble floors my only indication that I am about to endure another form of torture; his surliness. He stomps into the living room, looks around, then settles his glare on me.
“Where is she?” he hisses in Russian.
“Her room,” I spit back defensively.
“Why? What did you say to her?”
Throwing my hands up, I glare at my twin in utter annoyance.
“Why the fuck do you always blame me for her actions,podonok?”
“Because you won’t let us do anything! I’ll drag her out right now and force her to talk!”
I snort and shake my head, wiping at my jaw.
“See how far that gets you. She’s hurting. She needs closure.”
I know I’ve overstepped when that vein above his eye pulses and throbs, and his brows drop in his fury.
“She is not seeing that fucker.”
“You go ahead and tell her that, then. I’m sure she’s waiting. And when you do and she runs to him for comfort, it will be your fucking fault.”
Our voices have raised in this cavernous space, but we both still hear it, the soft patter of her footsteps and her subsequent sniffle. Tristan’s eyes soften immediately before he turns, her wavering form standing alone in the darkened hallway, phone clutched to her chest. Her red-rimmed eyes flit from his to mine.
“Is…is it okay if Ellie comes over?” she all but whispers. My chest seizes, eyes flicking to Tristan’s as he turns to me. That little flicker of hope begins to burn slightly brighter.