Consumed (Devoured, #2)(57)

I start to let go of Sienna’s hand, but she holds on to it like it’s impossible for her to let go as I sink down in the chair closest to the bed. “God, Sienna, I don’t know what to—”

“Tell me,” she implores. She grasps bunches of the starch white sheet in her other hand, twisting the fabric around anxiously. “God, Lucas, please tell me what all of this has been about.” The last word is a broken whisper, a plea. A silent warning:

Tell me or I’m gone. Tell me what you did, or we’re through.

If we were any other place, anywhere but in this goddamn hospital with her f*cked up because of me, I’d steer this conversation somewhere else. But I knew this was coming, and I feel like I’ve already been shoved into a pit and buried alive—the worst part of it all is that this is a grave I dug for myself.

Inhaling so deep my chest burns, I glance at my sister, at the blatant disappointment on her face, and then back to Sienna. Despite the pain she’s got to be in, she’s managed to sit upright. Even through the bruises and cuts, the dark circles beneath her wide blue eyes and the scowl on her face—even through it all, she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The best thing I’ve ever possessed.

And even if it means losing her—and maybe that’s what I deserve for what I did years ago—I owe her so much more than she’s been given so far.

“After everything went to shit between Sam and me, we didn’t stop seeing each other,” I begin. Sienna nods her head carefully, her curtain of red hair falling over her bruised face. “Hell, I saw her more after we separated than before.” Admitting that still makes me feel like the biggest f*cking idiot.

“I f*cked up,” I whisper harshly. “I did something f*cked up and then I told Samantha about it.”

Sienna lets out a breath. “Okay. What is it?”

The room feels like it’s shrinking in on me, so before it can finish, I mutter, “That I killed a man. That I ended someone’s life.”





After I came home from Louisville, I had no intention of seeing Samantha. I didn’t want to face her—or anyone else, for that matter—until I pulled myself together. Figured out what the f*ck I needed to do to fix the mess I was in.

Instead, Sam came to me.

I’d stumbled into my house drunk and falling over the couch. So wrecked I wouldn’t have noticed that someone else was there if not for a hand running down my shoulder from behind me. I grabbed the arm hard, and a teasing, familiar voice whispered into my ear, “Careful, Lucas, you might hurt me.”

Letting Samantha go, I pushed myself to my feet. “What the f*ck are you doing here?” I growled.

She flung her shoulder-length blonde hair over her shoulder and skimmed her tongue over her lips. “I missed you.”

I swept past her and climbed the steps, but she was right behind me, talking about her flight and how tired she was. She followed me into my bedroom, and as I started to get undressed, she threw herself down on the bed and yawned. “Get out, Sam.”

Stretching her arms out behind her for support, she made a pouting noise. “If you’re going to kick me out, you could at least sound convincing.” She lolled her head back, and when she looked at me again, she winked. “Trust me, you give me what I want and I’ll be on my way.”

“It’s not happening tonight.”

“But you’re drunk, and we both know how you get when you drink too much.” When I give her a warning glare that tells her I’m not f*cking her, she widens her eyes. “What the hell did you do to my Lucas?”

“I don’t want to touch you.” I sat down on the edge of my bed, and she tried to climb into my lap. I pushed her away, clenching my teeth. “I can’t touch you.”

The only thing I wanted to do was go to bed. To forget what I had done.

“You’re drunk, baby,” she reminded me. “But I love you, so I’ll forgive you.”

Maybe it was the alcohol, or the words she had said right then, or both, but the next thing that came out of my mouth condemned me. “I f*cking killed a man in Louisville.”

She sat perfectly still for nearly a minute and then she moved her head to the side. “Don’t play games, Lucas.”

I pulled her close to me so that our noses touched. “I. Killed. Someone.”

Then I told her what had happened. About Cilla being stalked for months. About the man attacking her in the parking lot of the little venue we were playing at. About me going after him, blind with rage, hitting him over and over again until he was unconscious.

“I took Cilla back inside.” I dragged my hands through my hair. “And when I went back out, he was gone. He was dead.”

Sam leaned forward. “You didn’t call the cops?”

“I f*cking panicked,” I shouted. “I f*cking panicked and left him there. They’re treating it as a mugging, Sam. What the f*ck do I do?”


She thought on my question for a moment, nibbling carefully on her bottom lip. Finally, she slid on top of me, taking my face between her hands. “Nothing. You do nothing because you’ve done nothing so far. Turning yourself in now would be the end for you. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do.”

She made a sound of approval that reminded me of someone offering encouragement to a small child. “Does Cilla know what happened?”