The Gender Game 5 by Bella Forrest (uplifting novels .txt) 📕

tiniest amount of blood, or spittle, or a mixture, still trailing at the side of his mouth, even though it looked like Owen had tried to wipe it away.

“Our parents just accepted it. When they took him. They just… let it happen. Said it was for the best. But I knew. I knew it wasn’t. I mean… how could they take him and leave me? I was the bad one. Somehow I passed their test, but I knew what I was. But Ian… he was so sweet, y’know? As beta as they came.”

He met my gaze, more tears falling from his lashes onto his cheek. “He saved animals,” he whispered, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “He would bring them home in a box if they were small enough to fix. A turtle, a bird, a kitten. There was this dog he found once—he must have escaped when he was younger, or maybe his owners abandoned him. I don’t know. But he had grown up wearing this collar, and it was killing him. It was too tight, and it was…” He stopped, the words lodging in his throat as a racking sob shuddered through his body. I felt my own heart twist at his words’ visceral reactions, wishing there were some way to comfort him.

He cleared his throat and scrubbed his eyes with his arm. “Anyway, he needed me to cut the collar off. He knew I had knives. Ian wouldn’t touch them, you know...” He met my gaze, a forlorn look in his eyes. “That’s when I knew the test was crap. When they took him… I knew. I kept knives, I used to secretly watch martial arts practice and try to replicate the moves, I used to break into houses to steal things… I was the bad son. The bad Matrian son. But they took him. And now he’s…”

Shoulders shaking, he looked away, unable to say the words.

I swallowed hard. “I know there’s nothing I can say to ever make this better,” I whispered. “Even right now, every word coming out of my mouth feels inadequate. But you’re my friend, Owen. You’re my friend and I love you. Please, whatever you need, whenever you need it. I’m here for you.”

Owen looked up at me, raw and vulnerable. His chin trembled and he wiped away another tear, almost angrily. “I want to bury him.”

I nodded. “Of course. I’ll make the arrangements.”

“Can I… Can I stay here with him? I don’t want him to be alone tonight.”

Fighting back tears, I nodded again. “Of course. You didn’t even need to ask.”

He shot me a grateful look, and then turned his gaze back to his brother. I sensed it was time to leave, but there was still one thing I wanted to know. It felt wrong to ask, somehow, but there was something more going on—I had seen it in Viggo’s face.

“Owen, what happened tonight? I mean, how did this happen?”

Owen shot me a vicious look, his face growing mottled with rage, as if someone had flipped a switch inside his brain. “Ask your boyfriend,” he hissed, his voice coming out like the angry leaking of a tire. I jerked back without thinking, as though he would launch himself at me.

A pregnant silence stretched between us, and after several long seconds, Owen leaned back and angrily wiped his eyes. “You should go.”

I agreed. Wordlessly, I stood up and moved over to the door. As my hand touched the doorknob, I stopped, the urge to apologize thick and hot on my tongue. It was the part I had hated the most after my mother had died—all the apologies. I could never understand them. Now, I couldn’t help but feel the same desire. It was a bandage of sorts. A way of making myself feel better for not being able to help him. I had always misunderstood them; I had thought all those people were saying they were sorry my mother had died. Now I realized they had been sorry they couldn’t help me and Tim more.

I wasn’t going to let Owen go through this alone, though. He wouldn’t get a “sorry” from me, because I would be there to help him. I left.

I found Amber in the living room, sifting through the boxes I had slung together. She turned as I came out, studying me. “I’m sorry about the transmission,” she offered softly, crossing her arms over her chest. “Viggo said they might have hacked the frequency. We needed to kill the link in case somebody was tracing it, trying to find you.”

“It’s okay,” I replied, my voice still thick. “I think Owen could do with your company. Can you go to him?”

She nodded and moved past me, heading toward the back room. I scanned the room. Still no Viggo. I moved down the hall and outside. The mood in the house was somber; as people moved around, unpacking from the evacuation drill, I could almost feel the news of the tragedy moving through our ranks, making the conversations softer and the darkness outside feel wearier and more dangerous.

Ms. Dale stood on the porch, talking in a low voice with Dr. Arlan and Lynne.

“Yes, of course,” she was saying to the young woman, “we removed the tracker from Ian’s body. As for the other boy”—she turned to the doctor—“we could keep him in the barn loft or the basement, but that’s not the best area.”

“I would hope to give him at least a little light… a place that feels safe,” Dr. Arlan said. “He’s just a child. He’ll probably be so confused when he wakes up. Is there someone here he trusts?” I realized, listening in, that they must have been talking about the other boy who had survived the raid.

“That depends,” Ms. Dale said, “on many things. The only person here who really knows him is Viggo, but I have reason to believe he’s probably been conditioned to think of Viggo as a traitor. It might be best if we