Page 61 of Ugly Truths (The Veiled Truths Trilogy #2)

Silas

T he bedroom door closes behind me, echoing in the quiet. For a moment, I stand just inside the threshold, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dim light filtering through the drawn curtains.

Elena is facing away from the door, the outline of her body visible under the covers, curled into a tight ball. Her back rises and falls with each shallow breath. It’s hard to tell if she’s asleep or not, especially when she’s been so still.

Steam from the chicken pot pie I holding tickles the edges of my nose, fresh from the oven.

I asked Kendall to make it for dinner, but it was ready early, and Elena liked it so much the last time we ate it.

It’s another Hail Mary. She’s barely taken anything besides water in the past three days, and even that’s been a struggle.

Just as I'm about to take a step towards her, my phone vibrates in my pocket. A curse forms in my head as Everett's name flashes on the screen before I send him to voicemail.

I’ve been working from the lounge chair next to the fireplace and taking calls in my study, but always returning to her side immediately after. Everyone has been accommodating, especially after the local news identified who was involved in the shooting, but life hasn’t stopped moving.

There’s so much to do, but I just—I can’t leave her like this.

Shoving the phone back into my pocket, I quietly approach the bed, placing the bowl on the side table before lifting the covers and sliding in as gently as possible. I slip one arm under her pillow and the other across her stomach, pulling her back against me.

She doesn’t tense in sleepy confusion or acknowledge my presence.

I hold her anyway, pressing a kiss to her dirty hair.

I haven’t been able to convince her to shower since the afternoon we got home from the hospital, when she spent over forty minutes rubbing her skin raw, silent tears streaming down her face as she did it.

Thinking about her in that state makes the ever-present nausea churn in my gut. The moment I saw her slumped in that emergency room chair beside my sister and Cillian, surrounded by police officers, will haunt every nightmare until my last breath.

She was still covered in blood, her expression so tight she barely looked like herself. Her arms were crossed over her chest as she spoke, and though streaks of old tears stained her cheeks, she looked hardened.

When our eyes met over the shoulders of the people questioning her, she blinked, like she didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t.

Then the hardness cracked, and every barrier she’d spent years building to protect herself after Drew splintered in an instant.

The sob that tore out of her when her chest crashed into mine took a piece of my soul with it.

After more than a decade of pushing forward to survive, Elena Cross finally let herself fall apart, and I’d never felt so goddamn helpless.

I barely even had time to ask what happened when Lauren plowed through the emergency room doors, her eyes frantically searching the room for her husband. When she finally caught sight of us and realized who was missing, she just knew.

Lauren collapsed to the floor in a heap. Though there was nothing but fear in Elena’s eyes, she ran to her, apologies pouring out as she sank to the floor in front of her friend, wrapped her arms around her, and wept.

The hours blurred after that. We stayed with Lauren, and Cillian eventually took Natalie back to my place so she could get clean and rest after Cora and Lloyd arrived. It wasn’t until Lauren’s parents and Jeff’s mother showed up that I started to pull Elena back.

She resisted, of course, but I could see what she couldn’t. Lauren was starting to absorb it all, and Elena’s shock had worn off. Her growing panic wasn’t helping. If anything, it was making it harder for Lauren to breathe.

Still, I didn’t have to push her. Lauren hugged her first. “I’m okay,” she said softly, even as her voice cracked. “Go home, rest. We’ll talk later.”

Elena nodded, but her apology tumbled out anyway, sharp and full of guilt. “I’m so sorry, Lauren. I’m so sorry—”

Lauren hushed her before I could. “It’s not your fault,” she said. And somehow, she meant it. Still comforting Elena even as the weight of what had happened settled into her own bones.

I didn’t give Elena a chance to spiral again. I guided her out through the automatic doors, toward my SUV, and took her home.

I’ve been in contact with Lauren’s parents, who have been staying with her. Lauren has postponed the services for now. She can barely make it through an hour at a time, let alone plan and host a memorial for the person she thought she was going to grow old with.

It took a little convincing, but they agreed for me to have a service drop off several meals a day, along with any other resources they might need.

Grief counselors, house cleaners, funeral services when she feels ready—whatever it is, it’s theirs.

My offers have no timeline or limit. All the resources in the world can't undo the damage done, but I have to try.

Elena’s stomach moves beneath my hand, her breathing a gentle, needed reminder that she’s still here. Alive, just like Natalie.

Because of Jeff.

I haven’t been able to shake the images from the CCTV footage.

It happened so fast. Even Cillian barely had time to react to the tinted SUV that sped past, its back window sliding down to reveal the muzzle of a gun.

Jeff’s quick dive to shield Elena and Natalie before the chaotic scramble that followed.

We received the autopsy results yesterday morning. Jeff was shot four times: in the aorta, pelvis, shoulder, and liver. They were simply too far from the hospital to stop the bleeding in time. It’s a cruel, clinical summary of someone who did something so selfless.

I’d started warming up to Jeff when he started coming to the house, but I liked him more after meeting Lauren. He watched her with adoration and pride, a softness in his eyes that I only saw muted versions of when he interacted with Elena. It was no wonder he was one of Elena’s favorite people.

He was good. Loyal. Brave.

Jeff probably never realized it, but all his cumulative actions since he met Elena had done the impossible: he bought us time. He trained her to keep her safe and gave her a place to heal and hide from me until enough of my rage had burned off to keep her alive.

Jeff’s the reason we’re here right now. I owe him everything. And now, that debt is Lauren’s, because she has to figure out how to survive without him.

Elena breaks the quiet, startling me. “Have you figured out who did it yet?” she asks, voice hoarse.

Davey was back in Chicago within twelve hours of Jeff’s death. We sent our private plane to bring him back while Paul stayed behind to monitor the facility, which remains in a state of limbo but stable.

He has also been handling his work and our investigation from home, keeping an eye on Natalie, who seems to be coping slightly better than Elena.

We have been working relentlessly to track down the SUV, but it’s all led to dead ends.

Not to mention the police’s involvement has only complicated things.

Apart from the footage captured on Jeff’s cameras, all other surrounding surveillance videos have been wiped from any available systems we’ve been able to identify within a two-mile radius of the gym, which are already sparse in that area of the city to begin with.

The SUV was stolen and the car was ditched not far from the shooting, leaving us no trail to follow .

Each problem has been an infuriating echo of the issues we faced when searching for the man who held Elena at gunpoint and the subsequent ransacking of her apartment in the spring.

The team is certain these are Peter’s methods—meticulous, brutal, erasing every trace aside from the one camera they wanted us to see.

Even with everyone agreeing, I can’t bring myself to tell Elena.

She already knows the answer, but admitting it out loud will only confirm her worst fear.

She is already haunted by guilt for things she couldn’t control.

I can't be the one to tell her Peter killed another person she loves. I just can’t do that to her.

Gently, I roll Elena to face me. A sliver of relief cuts through me at the sight of her red-rimmed eyes. Dried tears stain her cheeks and her lips are chapped, but she’s lucid.

"We don't have anything concrete," I tell her, which is the truth. We don't have definitive proof it was Peter. I don't give her a chance to respond or press for more details. Instead, I draw her close, brushing my lips to her forehead and lingering there.

She remains motionless, and a deep ache spreads through me, wishing she’d place a hand on my side, my chest—anywhere.

I speak softly, letting the words flow directly onto her skin, “You need to eat something.”

The silence that follows feels as heavy as the darkness surrounding us until she murmurs back, “I'm not hungry.”

“I know,” I say, running a hand up her side. “Kendall made chicken pot pie.” My voice softens. “Try to have a little, for me. Please.” The words are almost desperate.

I don't rush to get the bowl yet, choosing instead to savor this brief moment of clarity, though her lack of refusal lifts some of the weight off my chest.

She lets me hold her for longer than she has in days, but it’s only a few minutes before she begins to tremble. Her whole frame shakes with the effort of keeping the sobs contained. All of my limbs tighten, as if I can absorb the pain and carry it for her.

“I love you,” I breathe, my voice low and fervent. “So damn much. I'm so sorry.” It feels like the only thing I can say, and it still isn’t enough.

Elena exhales raggedly, and then she leans into me, her arms wrapping tightly around my middle. The pressure momentarily steals my breath.

She’s hugging me back.

Her sobs continue: relentless, raw, and broken. I whisper every comfort I can think of into her ear, my hand tracing soothing paths up and down her back. And we ride out the worst of it, her fingers digging into my sides while she convulses in agony for far too long.

It feels like hours, but eventually—thankfully—Elena's sobs begin to diminish into painful whimpers. She buries her face into the crook of my neck, her breath still uneven.

I'm poised for a brief reprieve, but instead, her voice shatters it. "I'm going to kill him," she rasps, each word a serrated edge against my skin. “With my bare fucking hands.” Her body locks up in fury. “He’s going to beg for me to by the end of it.”

Her honest, brutal words stir something in me. The parts I’ve spent the past few weeks trying to rebury. I’d forced them deep beneath the surface, desperate to put as much distance as possible between those instincts and the man I’m trying to be, despite how easily they once defined my father.

But her voice calls them back like a summons.

They stretch under my skin, retesting their limits.

It burns from the inside out. Not with heat, but a blaze of pure ice, pumping through every inch of vein until it’s unbearable.

This time, I don't force it down this time. I let it settle. I let it live. Because if this is what she needs, I’ll give it to her.

I’ll be the monster. I’ll do it gladly.

Grasping her chin, I tilt her head back to meet my gaze, her angry tears still streaming. I wait, thumb gently wiping her cheeks, until her eyes are clear enough to truly see me.

“When we find him,” I start, smoothing the top of her hair, “you call the shots. Whatever you want to do to him, however long it takes, it’s yours. There are no rules, no limits, and absolutely no fucking mercy.”