Page 9 of Slaughter
I crawled back into bed. The sheets felt cool against my skin as I pulled the covers up to my chin. My pulse still thudded in my ears, the taste of adrenaline bitter on my tongue. I told myself it was just the shock of being woken, just leftover worry from old days when trouble came in the dark.
But I knew that wasn’t the whole truth.
The kitchen was utter chaos the next morning as sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating a mess of cereal boxes, mugs, and yesterday’s plates piled in the sink. The smell of burned toast lingered in the air, mixing with the strong aroma of coffee, and somewhere in the background, the clatter of dishes punctuated the noisy atmosphere.
Joy sat at the table, hunched over her laptop, her face twisted in frustration. Fifteen torturous minutes spent trying to upload a simple photo, only for the spinning wheel of death to taunt her.
“This is ridiculous,” she announced, her words sharp with exasperation. “The internet keeps vanishing every five seconds. How am I supposed to maintain any kind of social life when I can’t even load Instagram?” She slammed her palm on the table, making her laptop jump and the spoon rattle in her mug.“My followers are going to think I’ve abandoned them. What if Megan tried to DM me about the party? Or what if I miss that group chat about the fundraiser? This is a disaster. How am I supposed to stay connected when I keep getting cut off from everyone that matters?”
Faith, standing by the counter with her coffee, watched our youngest sister’s dramatic performance with a lifted eyebrow and a hint of amusement. She took a slow sip, the mug clasped in her hands, and said in her dry, teasing tone, “You could try talking to actual people, you know. Face-to-face conversation. It’s been around for thousands of years, and it doesn’t require Wi-Fi.” Her eyes sparkled, clearly enjoying Joy’s theatrical misery and waiting for another lively retort.
Joy rolled her eyes, her voice rising in melodramatic protest. “Actual people don’t live here, Faith. Actual people live in town, where there are coffee shops and movie theaters and places to actually hang out, and I can’t see them because someone”—she shot an exaggerated glare at Zeke’s closed bedroom door, her frustration simmering—“won’t let me get my driver’s license yet. Seriously, literally everyone else I know has had their license for over a year already. I’m stuck here, cut off from everything.”
“You’re seventeen,” I said, grabbing the orange juice and pouring myself a glass, enjoying the coolness against my palm. “You’ll survive another few months without wheels. It’s not the end of the world.”
“Barely,” Joy muttered, sinking deeper into her chair, arms crossed and gaze fixed on the screen. “I’ll barely survive. This is basically social isolation. No Wi-Fi, no wheels, and nothing but burned toast and bad coffee. How am I supposed to keep up with my friends, or be there for them, when it feels like I’m on a different planet?”
Charity breezed in, already dressed and made up, her hair in a perfect braid that swung behind her as she moved. Sunlightstreamed through the kitchen window, spilling across the floor and painting golden patterns on her jeans. She smelled faintly of vanilla and fresh laundry. “Nevil and I are going to the clubhouse today,” she announced, her voice bright and hopeful. “He’s got prospect duties, and Kansas said I could hang out in the common room. Anyone want to come?” She hopped lightly from foot to foot, glancing at each of us with sparkling eyes, clearly hoping someone would take her up on the offer.
“Pass,” Joy muttered, her fingers drumming impatiently on the table. She didn’t even look up from the laptop screen, but her sigh was dramatic enough to fill the room. The quiet tap of her nails formed a restless percussion beneath the louder kitchen noises.
“I’m good,” Faith said with a little shrug, a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. She turned to Joan, reaching out to nudge her gently on the arm. “I was thinking, if you’re not busy, we could work in the greenhouse today. I’m looking to expand it by another ten feet. If I can, it will add an entire section for winter vegetables.” The faint earthy aroma from yesterday’s greenhouse work still clung to her flannel shirt, grounding her practical presence in the room.
Joan looked up, her reading glasses perched on her nose, her lips curving in quiet approval. She set her tablet aside, the faint hum of its screen silenced for the moment. “That’s great. Are you wanting to build raised beds? Maybe add some heating elements for the colder months?” Her fingers tapped thoughtfully against the table, already calculating measurements in her head.
“That’s what I was planning,” Faith replied, sharing a conspiratorial smile with Joan.
The morning sunlight warmed my skin as I sipped my juice, the glass cool and slick in my hand. The faint scent of strong coffee mingled with the earthiness drifting in from the greenhouse door left ajar, blending with the constantsoundtrack of Joy’s grumbling, the ping of spoons against mugs, and the quiet hum of Joan’s tablet. As I watched my family—Joy’s sarcastic quips, Charity’s relentless enthusiasm, Faith’s steady practicality, and Joan’s gentle wisdom—I felt a quiet gratitude settle in my chest. After everything we had been through, these simple mornings felt like a gift I never wanted to lose. In these small, ordinary moments, surrounded by the sounds and smells of home, I belonged. This was my family. This was home.
Zeke strode in, and Faith’s mug paused halfway to her lips. Charity’s foot stopped its restless bouncing, and Joy’s fingers froze mid-gesture, her arm poised to launch along with a dramatic eye roll. Zeke went straight to Joan, pressed a quick, tender kiss on her lips, then turned his back to us, pouring coffee with a practiced, almost ritualistic air. Tension knotted between his shoulder blades, visible even through his faded T-shirt. Jeans and no cut meant he wasn’t going anywhere. It was the uniform of an off-duty guardian.
Faith, ever the diplomat, nudged her mug forward and said carefully, “Morning, Zeke.” Her tone was deliberate, as if she were testing the air for danger.
“Morning.” Zeke took a long gulp of coffee, eyes shadowed. He turned but lingered behind the counter as if it could shield him from questions. “I need to tell you all something.”
Joy snapped her laptop shut with a flourish, almost knocking over her glass—always the performer. Charity, mid-story, cut herself off with a loud, “Wait, what?”—her braid swinging as she pivoted to face Zeke. Joan set aside her tablet, glasses perched like armor, fingers steepled. Faith straightened, her gaze sharpening.
I stayed put, juice glass held tight, watching the cracks in Zeke’s armor.
“We’re hosting a visitor for a few days,” Zeke said, voice clipped, not really inviting questions. “A former brother from the Golden Skulls. He needed a place to rest, and I said yes.” He didn’t look at anyone directly.
Charity’s hand shot up as if she were in class. “Who is he? Is he hot? Does he have a tragic backstory?” Sarcasm sharpened her words, but her eyes were searching.
Zeke dismissed her with a flat, “Doesn’t matter,” and Faith’s mouth twitched—the peacekeeper sensing trouble.
Joy flung her arms wide. “What’s his name?” She made a show of leaning forward, elbows planted, as if demanding a secret to be spilled.
“Not important,” Zeke said, crossing his arms like a shield, a warning.
“Why is he here?” I heard myself ask quietly, feeling the weight of Zeke’s protectiveness—always the family’s first line.
Zeke’s gaze locked on mine, a flash of old battles and secrets. “Personal reasons. And let’s be clear: leave him alone. He doesn’t want attention, or questions, or”—he gestured vaguely—“any drama. He’s going through some shit. He needs space.”
Charity snorted, “But?” only to be cut off.
“No,” Zeke barked, voice harder. “I mean it. All of you. Leave. Him. Alone.”
Charity rolled her eyes, arms crossed, sarcasm dialed up. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think? We’re not running a secret bunker. Name. Reason. Allergies. It’s basic houseguest data.”
