Lies Twist The Way We Think

Chapter 28 - The Great War

I have dreams.

In some, he saves me. In some, he is the one holding the gun.

Either way, there is a desperation, a longing, and my chest aches from the burden of it all. Or maybe something else.

He is everything I loathe. Everything I have ever wanted. I cannot help myself. How could I? He is the epicentre of this godforsaken storm, and I, the fool, am running towards him.

My mind drifts in and out of consciousness, caught between the realm of dreams and the hazy reality of the hospital room. The pain pulses through my body, a constant reminder of the events that unfolded. Each breath hurts, but I cling to the fragments of awareness, desperate to make sense of it all. I cling to consciousness like a drowning man clings to air.

Visitors come and go, their faces blurring together in my half-awake state. I catch glimpses of Avery's worried expression and the somber features of the Hawthorne brothers. Alisa hovers in the background, her voice a soothing murmur as she updates them on my condition.

But it is Grayson who remains a constant presence by my side. His fingers brush against mine, offering a lifeline in this sea of uncertainty. I can feel the weight of his concern, maybe a silent plea for me to hold on. It's as if he knows there's something more at stake, something beyond the confines of our complicated situation.

It feels absurd, now. All the rivalry. All the back and forth. I just want somebody to hold me. I got shot. Is that a fucking reality check, because it's a cruel one.

It's clear that the shooting was aimed at us. But why? Who tried to kill us— kill me? I refuse to be a pawn in someone else's plan, even as the threat looms ever closer. The shooting was just the beginning, a warning of the storm that approaches. And I will not be swept away without a fight.

C. R. D. - M. L. T.

It's been a week or so, and I'm recovering swiftly. The bullet hit my shoulder, and wood pierced the lower part of my chest, but not deep enough to cause serious damage. I lost a lot of blood, which was the most dangerous part, but I should be as good as new in a couple of months. That's what the doctors told me, anyway.

I'm back in my room im Hawthorne House, and we're discussing things. Everyone's worried, everyone's frustrated and scared. Grayson is pacing the room, his steps agitated. Alisa stands next to me, a frown ruining her usually carefully neutral look.

"So," I say, disrupting the tense silence, "what's next?"

Grayson halts and turns to me. "What do you mean, what's next? You're hurt, Camille." The way he says it sends a shiver down my spine. I know the others can feel it too, because the air changes and I can see Nash in my peripheral vision, his eyebrows wandering towards the sky.

"I'm okay," I say, and I can almost believe that. I close my eyes. He was there with me in the forest. I can feel his hand holding mine. Protecting me. I need this. I need something. Is wanting to feel something other than awful really so wrong?

Alisa grabs her tablet a little tighter. "We've got a lot to prepare. We need more security." She's talking to Oren now. "More protection. The media can't find out about this. We need to check everyone."

"I know a forensic investigator," Oren said evenly. "He works alongside an equally skilled hacker. They'll take a deep dive into everyone's finances and cell phone records. In the meantime, my team is going to focus on the staff." He throws me a glance. "No stone will be left unturned, Miss Diante. You can be sure of that."

Avery steps closer and I breathe out in relief. I seem to do that a lot recently. You before me. Always you. She looks at Jameson, then at me. "We found another clue."

She tells me about Winchester, Jameson's second name and by chance also the name of the gun collection in Hawthorne House. They found a second number. One.

Eight. One.

"It feels like a code," Jameson throws in. "Or a password." Xander hums in agreement, and Nash crosses his arms, doubt written all over his face. Four brothers...maybe four digits.

Nash frowns. "I hated his games. Still do." His games. Tobias Hawthorne's games. They look at each other, their looks full of messages I can't understand.

Then, Nash flashes a lazy, dangerous smile at his brothers. "Jamie, you're not skipping school today. You have five minutes to put on your uniform and get in my truck, or there will be a hog-tying in your future." He waits for Jameson to get a move on, then turns to Avery. "Same goes for you, Kid. Camille over there may get to stay at home, but that doesn't apply to you."

Avery scowls. "I'm not a kid. Don't call me that."

I chuckle and lean back, feeling my hair crunching against the pillow. Oh, no. I haven't taken care of it in what feels like an eternity. I must look my worst. My curls, I think mournfully. My looks are important to me. So what?

"Of course not." Nash murmurs as he gets closer to my bed. Across the room, Grayson stiffens. "You take care, Trouble. You still owe me a round of poker."

Ah right, that. A couple of days ago, Nash and I had made a bet during one of our late-night conversations. I lost, and he demanded that we would have a poker night one day. It's a small, insignificant thing in the grand scheme of things, but it feels oddly comforting to have something to look forward to amidst all the chaos.

"I haven't forgotten," I reply, a faint smile tugging at the corners of my lips. "But I hope you know that I never lose."

When everyone leaves for school, Grayson stays behind. His thumb brushes over my hand and I'm suddenly hyperaware that something significantly changed between us. We were shot at. My mind circles around that constantly. Maybe it's trauma. I might need a therapist. I've always needed a therapist, to be honest. This isn't my first almost-encounter with Death.

"You scared me," he says, his voice hoarse. He looks like a mess. "I thought I—," His voice breaks. "I really thought I lost you."

I inhale a sharp breath. Grayson looks taken aback, like he is already regretting his words, already rebuilding his walls. It's too much. It's too intimate. I can't do this. We cannot be friends, we cannot be more than distrusting allies, because anything else will destroy me. It will destroy everything.

Every step Grayson and I have ever taken towards each other feels like walking on a tightrope. He is too much of me. He is more of me than I am. It reminds me of the stories we read in Classics, the tragedies and the love stories and the deaths.

Perhaps we are like Ares and Aphrodite then; dancing around each other, close enough for our torn bodies to touch but never our hearts.

He deserves an answer. He deserves more than an answer, but I don't have more. "I never wanted to put you through that kind of fear. I'm sorry."

It's all I can give him. It's all I have. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You didn't lose me.