Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
That wasn’t his father.
That was a skeleton trying to crawl free from its flesh sack, a nightmare trying to come to life.
He still remembered his father standing tall in elegant suits, powerful yet with a casual ease that put people off their guard around him, his graying hair and weathered hands seeming to speak of both wisdom and temperance, kindness and surety. Whatever life had filled that man had fled, leaving behind only this husk like a shed skin.
Ash took one step closer to the bed, then stopped, rooted to the spot. His mouth twisted and trembled in this awful, hurtful way that he couldn’t stop, screwing up no matter how he tried to control it, and a terrible bark coughed up his throat only to catch against his palms as he clapped them over his mouth. Everything turned stinging and hot and runny, colors blurring together until he couldn’t see that terrible thing in the bed anymore. He couldn’t see anything but the colors of heartbreak, melting and running down the inner walls of his chest.
“Young Master?” Forsythe asked softly—tactful inquiry, unspoken question:
Shall I go?
He knew what Forsythe was doing. What he was asking. If Ash wanted to be alone with this; if he wanted to save his pride.
All he wanted was for this to not be happening. Not now. Not yet. Not ever.
And he turned, before he could stop himself…and flung himself against Forsythe’s chest, gripping up handfuls of his suit jacket.
“Forsythe,” he gulped out, burying his face against his broad chest, every breath coming out on a sob. “Brand.”
After several moments, Brand’s arms came around him. Brand was so large, this fortress of a man, and with those arms around him it felt like Ash was on the inside and the world was on the outside and if he just held on hard enough, Brand’s bulk could wall the pain away. Brand enveloped him in solid, quiet, stable warmth, in the scents of cool earth and musky darkness that eased away the scents of death, and for just these moments Ash closed his eyes and let himself hide.
“I know, young Master,” Brand murmured, that lilt to his voice gentle, his breaths stirring Ash’s hair. “I know.”
No matter how Ash tried, he couldn’t stop crying. He’d cried so fucking much since that phone call, but every time he thought he’d emptied himself out some new reservoir of pain inside him punctured and bled out in a fresh wash of tears. Every time he’d cried alone, shoving away from anyone before they could see more than a few faint trickles of tears.
But Brand let him not be alone, in these moments.
And Ash clung to that, for what small comfort it was—until the flood finally slowed. Until he could breathe again without feeling like the stitches binding him whole would snap. Until he could find his voice, and not just another wretched, keening cry of pain. Taking several shaky breaths, he scrubbed his nose against his wrist, then curled his fingers in Brand’s coat again and rested his cheek to his chest.
“Stay?” he whispered. “Stay with me.”
“Of course,” Brand answered—as if there could be no other answer.
Ash didn’t resist, as Brand guided him to the deeply upholstered sofa settled against the wall near the bed. Gently, Brand eased him down, then settled next to him with one heavy arm draped around Ash, holding him against his side. Ash leaned into him, biting his lip, forcing himself to look at the fragile shape of his father in the bed once more—then looking away once more, whimpering and shaking his head in denial and hiding his face against Brand’s side.
He would feel guilty for this later, knowing he had essentially bought the man’s comfort and compassion, but right now he didn’t have it in him to feel anything but the ache of impending loss—and relief that someone, anyone was here, rather than leaving him to face this alone.
Leaving him to stand vigil on his own, when every miniscule breath was like the second hand ticking down, down, down to the hour of his father’s death.
He didn’t know how long they sat there—the only sound the respirator, Ash’s sniffles, and the strong, steady beat of Brand’s heart against his cheek. Ash felt like something was building up inside him, something that would come out as a scream if he didn’t wrench it down into something more tame, more sensible, pressing against the insides of his lips until he couldn’t take it anymore and let it spill out in words.
“I don’t know how to deal with this.” His voice was a scratchy mess, an invasion in the almost sacramental stillness of this death-watch, and he winced, bowing his head, staring down at his knees. “I…I know it has to happen to everyone someday. We’re not immortal. But you imagine this slow thing, you know? Every day they’re a little bit less of themselves, and you have time to cope with them slipping away. Years of grains falling through the hourglass.” He rubbed at his aching throat. “But for me…one moment he was there, and the next his hourglass was shattered with only a few grains left.” His lips trembled, and he pressed them together, fighting against that warning of fresh tears and shaking his head. “It’s too sudden.”