Page 10 of The Reckoning (Oakmount Elite #7)

SIX

ARIES

T his particular warehouse smells like dust, and I swear to God if I never have to see the inside of a warehouse again it will be too fucking soon. I lean against the concrete wall, arms crossed, watching the steady rise and fall of Lilian’s chest through the open doorway.

She’s been unconscious for hours now, lying still on the bed Drew set up for her.

It’s almost morning, not that I’ll be able to sleep until she opens her eyes and looks at me.

At this point, I just want her to be awake.

Hell, I’ll even take a slap across the face for being an asshole. Anything to let me know she’s okay.

Three fucking hours since we pulled her out of that corporate prison after Arson’s backers took her, and I saw the bruises on her wrists and the red mark on her temple. Seeing her like that caused something inside my chest to crack open and start bleeding.

Drew paces near the windows, checking his phone every thirty seconds like he’s expecting the cavalry to arrive. His nervous energy grates against my already frayed nerves, but not as much as the other presence in this godforsaken place.

Arson.

He stands rigid in the corner of the room like a statue carved from rage and desperation. He hasn’t moved from that spot since we brought her here, hasn’t taken his eyes off Lilian’s prone form. The intensity radiating from him is almost visible, a heat shimmer of barely contained violence.

It’s unsettling how much I see myself in him, especially when he’s consumed by emotion. The same clenched jaw, the same white-knuckled fists. Where I’ve learned to internalize, to control, he wears his obsession like armor.

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? Obsession. The way he watches her, the possessive set of his shoulders—this isn’t just concern for an ally or a friend. This is something deeper, darker. Something that mirrors the feelings I’ve spent years trying to bury.

“The doctor should be here soon,” Drew says for the third time in ten minutes, his voice cutting through my brooding.

“He’s taking too fucking long,” Arson growls, taking a step toward the door. “I should wake her up. Check if she’s okay. Should she be sleeping this long?”

I push off the wall, blocking his path. “She needs to rest, and you need to relax. So sit the hell down.”

“Get out of my way, brother.” The word drips with venom.

“Not happening.” I don’t move, don’t flinch when he steps closer. “The last thing she needs is you hovering over her like some psychotic guardian angel.”

“Psychotic?” His voice drops to that dangerous register I’ve heard him use when he’s seconds away from violence. “That’s rich, coming from the golden boy who’s acting like this is all my fault.”

The accusation hits like a physical blow, even though it’s not entirely fair.

Neither of us could have prevented what happened—we were both locked up when his backers made their move. But that’s the thing about guilt: it doesn’t follow logic, and I can’t shake the feeling that I should have done something more.

“You think I don’t know that?” I snap, feeling my own control fraying. “You think I don’t replay every second, wondering what I could have done differently?”

Drew clears his throat nervously. “Maybe we should?—”

“Shut up,” we both say in unison, never breaking eye contact.

There’s something almost comical about the synchronization, the way we move and react like mirror images. What isn’t funny is the tension crackling between us, the unspoken competition for something we can’t quite name.

For her.

All of this, every single thing, is about Lilian, about the way she looks at both of us with those blue eyes that seem to see straight through every carefully constructed wall.

He had feelings for her since he first met her, and her involvement satisfied both his desire for revenge and his lust for her.

I’ve spent years convincing myself that my feelings for her were inappropriate, and wrong.

That the distance I maintained was for her protection, for both our sakes.

But watching Arson’s desperate need to touch her, to claim her, I realize I was just lying to myself.

He never bothered pretending he didn’t want her.

Only pretending she was a means to an end.

I’ve wanted her so long now, yet each time I admit it to myself, it still registers as wrong deep in my chest. I have always wanted her, in ways that have nothing to do with family dynamics and everything to do with the fierce, brilliant woman she’s become despite everyone’s attempt to cage her.

“Tell me about Richard,” I say, forcing my voice to remain level. “What did he really want?”

Arson’s jaw tightens. “Nothing important. Or rather, nothing I’m going to do.”

“That can’t be the reason you look like you want to murder someone.”

“Besides the obvious?” He gestures toward Lilian. “He did mention her specifically. Said she’s been missing appointments and not responding to calls. He wants me to find her.”

A chill runs down my spine. “And?”

“And he talked about some new treatment protocol. Something the Medical Research Division has been developing.” Arson’s hands clench into fists. “For her heart condition.”

The same division that ran the facility where they kept him. Where they experimented on people under the guise of medical care. The pieces click together with horrible clarity, but this time I’m really hearing it—not just the facts, but the weight behind them.

I’ve heard Arson rant about the facility before, screaming accusations through his cell door about torture and experiments.

Back then, it felt like the ravings of a madman, designed to hurt me and make me feel guilty.

This is different. This is calm and factual, making it infinitely more terrifying.

“They want to bring her in,” I realize, nausea rising in my throat. “Use her condition as an excuse to?—”

“To what?” Drew interrupts, finally paying attention to our conversation. “What are you talking about?”

I look at my twin, seeing my own horror reflected in his features, but there’s something else there, too—a bone-deep exhaustion that comes from carrying this truth alone for so long.

“Hayes Enterprises doesn’t just run corporate acquisitions. They have a medical division that… experiments on people. Under the guise of treatment.”

“That’s where they kept me,” Arson confirms grimly. “Where they experimented on me, thinking they could break me down and reshape me. Instead, they forged me into the perfect weapon to bring them down.”

The casual way he says it—like he’s discussing the weather instead of years of systematic abuse—makes my stomach lurch. How many times has he had to repeat this story? How many times has he been dismissed, disbelieved, or written off as delusional?

“Jesus Christ,” Drew breathes, his face going pale. “For how long?”

“Years.” Arson’s voice remains steady, but I can see the tension in his shoulders and the way his jaw tightens. “From the time I was fourteen until I escaped.”

I think about when they told me he was dead. I’d been sixteen. He’d already been tortured for two years. While I was grieving a brother I thought I’d lost, mourning the future we’d never have, he was trapped in some sterile hell, being torn apart and put back together like a broken toy.

“What did they do to you?” The question slips out before I can stop it, raw and desperate.

Arson’s eyes snap to mine, and for a moment, I see past all the rage and calculation to the broken boy underneath. “Everything you can imagine,” he says quietly. “And so many things you can’t.”

The words are a lead weight pressing down on my chest. I’ve spent years thinking I understood pain—the pressure of being the perfect son, the isolation of carrying Richard’s expectations, the guilt of surviving when my brother didn’t.

The difference was that my suffering was nothing compared to this.

Nothing compared to what they did to him in the name of science, of progress, or whatever sick justification they used.

“The scars,” I realize suddenly, remembering the marks I’d caught a glimpse of on his arms and neck. “That’s where they came from.”

“Some of them.” His smile is hollow. “Others are from the times I tried to fight back. Or when the experiments didn’t go as planned.”

Experiments. My skin crawls. What kind of experiments? What had they done to a teenage boy that left him so fundamentally changed, so completely remade into something dangerous and calculating?

“They made me believe you were dead,” I say, my voice harder now. “There was a funeral, a headstone, and grief counselors. It was all so real, so convincing. And when it wasn’t enough…”

“You never questioned it?” Arson’s voice sharpens, the momentary vulnerability disappearing behind familiar walls of anger. “Never wondered why they wouldn’t let you see the body? Why everything was so conveniently wrapped up?”

“I was sixteen—” I don’t mention the beatings when I mentioned Arson’s name or the shoves, slaps, and silence until I fell in line.

“So was I.” His eyes flash with danger. “While you were playing the grieving brother at my fake funeral, I was screaming for someone to help me.”

Why is he acting like I wanted him dead? I feel my own anger rising to match his. “It’s not like I wanted you dead. Like I was happy you were gone.”

“Weren’t you?” The question stops me cold. “Wasn’t it easier? No more competition, no more having to share attention. Just you, the golden child, getting exactly what you always wanted. All the fucking attention.”

“Fuck you.” The words come out low and vicious. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“How so?” Arson steps closer, the space between us crackling with old resentment and fresh pain. “Tell me you didn’t enjoy being the only son. Tell me you didn’t relish having their full attention, their complete focus.”

I clench my hand into a fist involuntarily, the desire to drive it into his fucking face. To wipe that knowing smirk off his mouth and show him exactly how wrong he is. Thankfully before I can move, before either of us can cross that final line and draw blood Drew’s voice cuts through the tension.

“Enough.” He steps between us, his hands raised. “This doesn’t matter right now. None of it matters. Lilian is passed out in there, and you two are standing here having a dick-measuring contest about who suffered more trauma.”

He’s right. Whatever’s between Arson and me, whatever wounds we’ve inflicted or endured, none of it matters compared to keeping Lilian safe.

Arson takes a step back, his jaw still tight with anger, but his eyes clearing. “You’re right. Now isn’t the time to hash this out.”

“No, it’s not.” I force my own rage down, burying it beneath the more immediate concern. “She needs us. Both of us. They don’t get to hurt her.”

For a moment, we just stare at each other—two broken halves of what used to be whole, held together now only by shared purpose.

The thought of Lilian in one of those sterile rooms, hooked up to machines, subjected to God knows what kind of procedures—it makes something violent and primitive roar to life in my chest.

“Over my dead body,” I breathe.

“Funny.” Arson’s smile is sharp enough to cut. “That’s exactly what I said.”

They want to hurt her, and there’s no way in fucking hell we’re going to allow that to happen.

“So what’s the plan?” Drew asks, apparently realizing this conversation has shifted into dangerous territory.

“I maintain the cover,” Arson says. “Keep playing Aries, convince Richard that everything’s normal. Buy us time to figure out what my backers are really planning. What Patricia and Richard want with Lilian so badly right now.”

“We need a backup plan. What if he sees through it?”

“Then we improvise.” The cold calculation in his voice reminds me that my brother isn’t just damaged—he’s dangerous.

I nod, hating that I have to trust him but knowing we don’t have a choice.

“The Mill House, probably,” I say suddenly.

“After we get out of this safe house, we take her there. Lee runs security for that place like Fort Knox. No way anyone breaches those defenses. And they likely saw everyone move out months ago. Lee can easily ensure all society activities are shut down for the time being.”

Arson studies him carefully. “You’re sure?”

“Positive. Lee’s paranoid about security, and he has the resources. It’s the safest place off Richard’s radar.” Drew meets both our gazes steadily. “At least until we figure out our next move.”

For now, at least. Nothing stays safe forever in Richard’s world, and we all know it.

The sound of a car engine outside breaks the tension, tires crunching on gravel. Drew moves to the window, peering through a gap in the boarded-up glass.

“Doctor’s here,” he announces.

Arson’s entire body goes rigid, his hands clenching into fists. “About fucking time.”

Drew opens the door as footsteps approach—a middle-aged man with kind eyes and the careful manner of someone who’s learned not to ask too many questions. He nods politely as he enters, medical bag in hand.

“Gentlemen. I understand you have a patient who needs attention?”