Of Frost & Cinder (Old Version)

Caged Bird Rising

Chapter Nineteen

I have to take a slow, focused breath to gather my thoughts on this bombshell.

Boyd—this wide-jawed, black haired, mass of a man—is his brother. A man who, pretty obliviously, runs a bar full of magically-enhanced werewolves—werewolves that seem to have an unquenchable thirst for witch blood.

If they find her, they'll kill her. Dad's voice whispers through my mind like a wisp of chilling wind through the trees. A sickening, heavy feeling—dread—soaks into my bones as Beck's thumb twitches atop my hand.

After everything—saving my life, helping me find my memories—I still don't know who Beck is. I've been so concerned with finding a solution to my problems that I completely overlooked who my help was coming from. Yeah, he's been secretive and cryptic from the very beginning—which I justified his reserve with the excuse of our small window of interaction, when really, the amount of time we've known each other isn't exactly comparable to the spectrum of events we've experienced together—but he should've been honest with me from the start. If he had been, we probably wouldn't be in this situation.

Boyd is obviously Elite, but the question is if his brother is apart of the group, too, then why is he helping me? To figure out if I'm part of the prey?

"Boyd." Beck gives his brother a swift nod.

Metallic irises, blank of expression, cut through mine when we make eye contact. The color—the only physical similarity between brothers that I can currently note—sends shivers rippling up my spine.

"Never a dull moment with you, is there, kid?" He says, his tone coated in a sarcasm that seems misplaced with the gravelly sound of his voice. Even from behind a desk, the man is a tower of thick, solid muscle. His shoulders are broad, sculpted, and stretching his Beauchamp's navy polo to its limits.

"You know me. I like adrenaline." On the surface, Beck seems calm and collected, but really he's squeezing my hand so hard that I can practically feel the blood pulsing through his fingers. "What're we doing here?"

Boyd's cold eyes flicker briefly from mine to Beck's for a long, uncomfortable moment. I can't find what exactly he's searching for, and neither must he, for after a moment, he slides his gaze back down to his paperwork unsatisfied. He picks up his pen and begins jotting down short marks, not bothering to look up from scribbling when he asks,"What's my rule?"

Despite Boyd's unreadable eyes, this comes out like a demand for an answer rather than a question. "What's the only rule I've ever expected us to follow?"

Beck inhales sharply through his nostrils, his grip tightening on my own. "No outsiders," he replies through clenched teeth.

"No...outsiders." Boyd's lips twitch under his dark beard. "I assumed that'd be the rule freshest in your mind."

Beck winces hard, like Boyd's just delivered a near fatal blow to his gut. Whatever his intent behind the statement was, it worked. Maybe its because I've been so wrapped up in my own issues lately, but looking over his taut face now, I realize I've never seen anyone—especially Beck—look so pale...or weak. Is Boyd why he looks so weirdly sickly—from brotherly-induced stress?

"Is she a recruit?" Boyd asks curtly.

"No."

I wish Beck wouldn't hide so much. I think back to the conversation we had at my house. It was barely a week ago, but after everything that's happened since, it seems so distant a memory. At the house, Beck was describing The Purge—how the witches were enslaved and then murdered after the wolves used them to be upgraded into monsters—but when I had asked him what side he was on, he never gave me a direct answer.