Steve's POV
I snatched the photo from his hand. The way he looked at it—with a reverence it didn't deserve—made my skin crawl. I crumpled it into a tight ball and tossed it out the window like the garbage it was. "No one important," I muttered.
I got out of the car, needing space from his unsettling intensity. "I'm supposed to sign you up for desk duty. Your grandfather insists. Intelligence Unit. Nothing dangerous. Wait here. Don't move. Don't do anything, Hardy."
A slow, infuriating smile spread across his face. "You do realize I'm your boss, right? I'm your father's boss. Your entire family's boss. Hell, I reckon I'm everyone's boss in Oswald except the old man. I give the orders, Stan."
The audacity.
I forced my expression into a smile. "Of course, Sir," I bit out, holding his challenging gaze until he finally leaned back, satisfied, the picture of arrogant ease.
I slammed the door shut hard enough to rock the car.
Buying toothpaste and underwear for this insufferable prick was a new low. I focused on Lisa, on the promise of her, just to stop myself from imagining wrapping my hands around his throat.
When I returned, he was leaning against the car, a backpack and duffel at his feet, a pair of sunglasses perched on his head. And in his hand—the photograph. He'd retrieved it. He smoothed it out carefully before tucking it into his breast pocket, a possessive gesture that sent a jolt of irrational anger through me.
Whatever. He can have the trash. "I got your things,"I said, thrusting the bag at him.
He glanced at it, then gave me a look of mock surprise. "Oh, shoot. I totally forgot I already packed. But thanks." He shrugged, a gesture so dismissive it was an art form. "I should go."
"I need to sign you up," I insisted, falling into step beside him. His longer strides forced me to almost jog to keep up.
"The Intelligence Unit, right?" I asked, a cold dread beginning to pool in my stomach.
He didn't even look at me. "Oh, no. Definitely not that. Sounded boring. I signed up for something called KSI." He said it with feigned innocence, a glint of malicious amusement in his eyes.
My blood ran cold. I stopped dead. "You signed up for Killer Squad International?"
He paused, scratching his brow as if genuinely puzzled. "Is that what that is? Huh. That sounds... dangerous." He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a taunting whisper. "How are you going to explain that to Grandpa? I really hope I don't die. That would suck for you, dude. Majorly." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Okay, nice talk. Bus is leaving."
He walked away, leaving me standing there, the ground tilting beneath my feet.
Fuck.
---
Miracle's POV
Xavier drove me right up to the checkpoint, a field buzzing with organized chaos. They were tents, buses, and yelling people.
He got out and opened my door. A part of me, the broken part, was still complacent, just following orders. He pulled my backpack from the car and held it, his knuckles white.
"Don't I need that to play soldier?" I asked, forcing a smile.
There was nothing funny about this. A mind-numbing, primal fear had taken root in me. It made my heart stutter and my palms sweat. It was the kind of fear that makes you want to empty your bladder and your stomach at the same time.
"This is a bad idea, Miracle," Xav said, his voice rough. "A really bad idea. You can't even stand straight." He was right. I was rocking slightly, a self-soothing rhythm I hadn't even noticed.
He stepped closer, his hand rubbing my shoulder. His own fear was a live wire I could feel buzzing under my skin.
We're twins. We've always shared everything—joy, anger, even physical pain. I remember once, miles apart, we both screamed and clutched our abdomens when I got my first period at thirteen. This connection, this curse and blessing, meant he had a front-row seat to the sheer terror currently shredding my insides.
"Don't hate me," he whispered, his green eyes dim with guilt and fear. "Please, don't hate me. I'm doing this for you."
I pulled him into a crushing hug. "I don't hate you. I can do this, can't I, boy?" I asked, seeking the confidence he'd always had enough of for both of us.
"You're the strongest person I know," he said, but his voice wavered. "I need you to get up. You look defeated and I can't stand it. I want my sister back."
I managed a weak smile. "I got my ass kicked, Xav. The ground is still spinning."
"Then walk it off!" he insisted, a desperate command. "You're a warrior, Miracle!"
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are!"
The truth spilled out, raw and honest. "I'm not! And I'm not you, either! Things don't just magically work out for me. Trauma doesn't slide off my back. My pain doesn't turn into strength; it just hurts. I can't just 'walk it off.' If I could, I would! But I'm not Xavier Eric Cole, the genius, the kickass golden boy everything comes easy to!"
I saw the hurt flash in his eyes, but I couldn't take it back. I snatched the backpack from him and turned toward the checkpoint.
"Hey, little girl!" he called out, using Grandpa's old nickname.
I stopped but didn't turn around.
"I love you, you know that, right?" His voice was barely a whisper, carried away by the wind.
It was a good question. One I didn't have an answer for. I just kept walking.