Let the Storm Break (Sky Fall #2)(57)

“Right,” she mumbles. “Not human.”

She stares at the three of us, looking lost and helpless. “I’ll be fine,” I tell everyone, lifting Vane’s hands and draping his

arms around my shoulders, which I know he won’t resist. He takes

my cue, pulling me against him, and I can’t help glancing at Solana. She glares at me before she looks away.

She still wants him.

“Please let my mom treat the cut,” Vane whispers, his breath

grazing my cheek. “I’d rather not have it turn into a giant, gangrenefilled hole in your side.”

I shudder, unable to stop myself from thinking of Aston. “We have to do something,” his mom chimes in. “Come on, I’ll

get you the gauze and ointment.”

I hate the idea of leaving Solana and Vane alone. But I feel better

when I see Vane’s sweet, worried eyes focused completely on me as I

follow his mom out of the room.

She leads me to a cluttered bathroom that has to be Vane’s.

Everything about it screams “guy,” from the musty clothes and towels piled on the floor to the streaked mirror speckled with dried

flecks of water.

“Sorry about the mess,” she says as she bends and removes a

white box marked “First Aid” from the cabinet under the sink. “You

know how Vane is.”

I don’t realize she meant it as a question until she turns to face

me, waiting for my response.

“I . . . do” is the best I can come up with.

Her face is impossible to read as she soaks a clean white towel

with steaming water from the faucet. I reach to take it from her but she doesn’t let go. “Don’t worry. I’ve treated plenty of scrapes and cuts

over the years. Vane was a very accident-prone kid.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Oh. So . . . you knew him back then?”

I nod.

“What about before his parents were . . . ?”

“Vane didn’t tell you?”

“He hasn’t told me anything.”

I’m not sure how much I should say. But I can tell she’s desperate

for me to fill in some of the blanks. “I’ve known Vane since he was

six. My parents were in charge of protecting his family.” Her eyes widen as she processes that.

“Did your parents survive the storm?” she whispers. “My mother did.”

I leave out why. It’s safe to assume she wouldn’t be looking at

me with sad, sympathetic eyes if she knew I was the daughter of a

murderer. And I can’t say I’d blame her.

I clear my throat. “Anyway, after that, I volunteered to be his

guardian, and I’ve been watching him ever since. Trying to keep him

safe.”

“I can’t decide if that’s sweet or kind of . . . weird,” she says after

a second.

“Me either, honestly.”

She smiles. But it’s a hesitant smile. A tired smile.

“Did Vane know you were watching him?”

“I think he wondered. There were a few times when he accidentally saw me—but they were too quick for him to tell if I was real. He didn’t know for sure until a few weeks ago, when the Stormers found

us and I had to show myself so I could protect him.”

She nods, wringing the towel in her hands. “And now . . . you’re

back?”

This time I don’t miss the question in her tone.

I wait for her to look at me before I tell her, “As long as he wants

me to be.”

I can’t tell if she’s happy with that answer. It shouldn’t matter,

but . . .

I want his mom to like me.

It’s silly and childish and probably impossible. But seeing how

fiercely she loves her son makes me ache for a small sliver of acceptance—something I could hold on to, to tell myself I deserve the

beautiful boy I’ve stolen. Maybe it would ease a tiny bit of the guilt

that swells inside me every time I think about the angry betrayal I

saw in Solana’s eyes.

“Can you lift up your shirt a little more?”Vane’s mom asks, holding out the towel.

I do, leaning against the counter as she squats down and touches

the skin around my wound.

Her fingers are gentle but confident as she smoothes the jagged

edges of the cut. “This looks really painful.”

“I’ve had worse.”

She frowns, and I think she’s going to ask me what I mean.

Instead she says, “Is . . . there a breeze swirling around your skin?” “Oh—yes. It’s been keeping the wound clean for me.” “Uh-huh,” she mumbles as I unravel the draft and carry it to the window above the shower. I have to balance on the edge of the tub

to reach it.

I can tell the Westerly doesn’t want to leave, but it’s time to let

it go. “Stay safe,” I plead as I stand on my tiptoes and slide open

the glass. The draft whips around me, singing a song about drifting

through the dunes, and I hope that means it will stay nearby—but