Page 50 of Undying Resilience

“Promise me,” I bark out.

When he looks at me, the determination burning in his eyes causes me to take a step backward. He follows me, crossing his arms over his chest. Oliver may be shorter than I am, but right now, it feels like he’s ten feet tall.

“I’ll do whatever I have to,” he says. “Whatever is needed to make sure the three of you stay alive. You’d do the same.”

“No. This was downright idiotic.”

“It was a calculated risk,” he snaps. “And I’m sorry for going behind your back the way I did. Truly, I am. But I will never apologize for getting to Wren sooner. If I hadn’t, we still wouldn’t know where she was. She could’ve died by now, Rhett. And you know you would’ve done the same thing if you’d thought of the idea. Stop lying to yourself.”

“I would never do that to Ell,” I shout.

It’s then that we realize Elliot and Wren are watching us from the bottom of the stairs. Wren is still wrapped up in multiple blankets, and Ell has a protective arm around her shoulders. They both look exhausted, and Wren’s eyes carry a sadness in them that I instantly feel guilty for putting there.

“Rhett, he—” she starts to say, but Oliver cuts her off.

“Don’t. If he’s going to take his anger out on someone, it’s going to be me, not you.”

“No,” Elliot says. “Right now, our first priority is getting Wren home. So Rhett, calm the fuck down. You two can continue this conversation later.”

I bite back my sharp remarks. It doesn’t matter that we rescued Oliver and Wren. Tension is still high, and Ell is right. Now isn’t the time to fight. It’s time to get the hell out of here.

Elliot leaves to grab his car, saying that there’s no sense in all of us walking that far, especially since Wren doesn’t even have shoes. She sits on the couch, turning so she can avoid the scene in the kitchen while Oliver and I wash off as much blood from our hands and arms as we can.

When Elliot gets back, he carries Wren to the car, gently setting her in the backseat where her change of clothes is waiting. He already has the heat on blast, thank fuck. Wren just got warm again. She needs to stay that way.

After throwing a gagged Jordan in the trunk, I join Wren in the back, and Oliver takes the passenger seat. As soon as everyone is settled, Elliot grabs Oliver’s hand, steering with the other. They don’t let go for the whole drive.

I pull out my phone and start typing away. First I let Finn know that we made it out safely. Then I contact one of our go-to fixers. He has a team of highly skilled people who can make it look like nothing ever happened at that house. They can do it damn fast, too.

By the time we get home, Wren has fallen asleep with her head on my shoulder. She’s still cocooned in blankets, but she found a way to work one of her hands out so she could rest it on my arm.

“Sweetheart,” I murmur once we’re parked. “We’re home.”

She stirs, snuggling into me with a moan. “Sleep here.”

I can’t help but laugh, even though it’s pathetic at best. “I don’t think so, Wren. C’mon.”

She groans, but she opens her eyes, blinking against the bright light of the garage. Elliot opens her door and helps her out, peeling the blankets off of her so she doesn’t trip.

Oliver and I drag Jordan through the house and dump him in a guest room. I tie him to the bed, and he tries to say something, but it’s incomprehensible with the gag.

Once we lock him in the room, I turn to go, but Oliver grabs my arm.

I pull out of his grasp. “I’m too tired for this right now, O.”

“Rhett, please.” His tone is worn down, maybe even a little desperate, and it sends chills down my spine. “Please.”

“Don’t beg,” I grit out. But it’s too late. Memories are already flooding into my mind. The tears, the pleading, the humiliation. The icy fire of hate taking hold of my soul, burning brighter with every incident. “You never have to beg.”

I can see it in Oliver’s eyes as he realizes what he set off in my head. He reaches for me, but at the last second he pulls back, thinking better.

There are thousands of types of torture. But as Oliver stares at me hopelessly while I try to get my memories under control, I’m reminded that the worst kind of torture is the one that’s inflicted by the people you love the most. Or the ones who’re supposed to love you but can’t find it in them to care.

That’s not me. I care. I care more than anything.

“Oliver, I lo...” I choke on the words before trying again. “I love—”

But that old voice echoes in my head. Say it back. Now, boy.