C5 Chapter 5

A violent, unceremonious jostling yanked me directly out of the fragile sanctuary of my deep unconsciousness—marking the second time in a mere span of twenty-four hours that my rest had been aggressively compromised. My initial, hazy instinct was to blame Beatrice, or perhaps one of the younger pack of siblings who usually lacked any concept of personal boundaries, but a sudden clearing of my fogged senses confirmed that none of my usual relatives were responsible for this current intrusion.

An involuntary, guttural groan escaped the back of my throat as I blindly reached across the vast, sprawling expanse of the king-sized mattress, desperately clawing for a secondary down pillow. Once my fingers clamped around the fabric, I slammed it over my face, pressing the heavy material tightly against my skull in a futile attempt to seal off my ears from the outside world. Yet, the relentless, bone-rattling electronic bass bleeding through the floorboards did not diminish in intensity for even a single fraction of a second.

I let out a low, frustrated snarl, a hot wave of irritation rushing through my veins. Deep down, a small voice whispered that I lacked any legitimate authority to complain given our current temporary living arrangements, but my logic was entirely overridden by the agonizing, sledgehammer rhythm pounding against the inside of my temples.

The truth was, the entirety of the previous night had been a completely sleepless blur, spent tossing in a miserable cocktail of overwhelming sentimentality and paralyzing dread. The painful process of bidding farewell to our mentor had torn a massive rift through my emotional stability, and the lingering weight of that departure had rendered sleep an absolute impossibility.

No matter how many times I rearranged my limbs, flipped the blankets, or shifted from one side of the mattress to the other, comfort remained entirely elusive.

Accepting defeat, I forced my torso upright, extending my arms toward the ceiling to stretch out the stiff, aching muscles lining my back and shoulders. It was a bleak realization, but it was clear that any further attempts at catching sleep today were officially abandoned.

Had it been Marcus in this bed, he would have effortlessly remained dead to the world right through this entire auditory assault. I possessed absolute proof of this fact because I had once intentionally practiced a chaotic percussion routine directly beside his skull, and his breathing hadn’t altered in the slightest. Frankly, the man possessed the uncanny, almost supernatural ability to slumber through an apocalypse. The mechanics behind his heavy sleep patterns were completely beyond my comprehension. While I didn’t consider myself an exceptionally fragile sleeper, I certainly didn’t possess the impenetrable, stone-like dormancy that Marcus enjoyed daily.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the elevated frame, I slid my bare feet into a pair of worn, dark-indigo rubber slides resting on the hardwood. I dragged both hands through the tangled web of my uncombed hair, twisting the long strands upward into a loose, disorganized knot at the crown of my skull, though several rebellious wisps immediately slipped free of the restriction, framing either side of my face in messy layers.

Right on cue, my stomach let out a fierce, demanding growl that echoed in the quiet room, signaling that an immediate trek down to the lower levels of the estate to locate the kitchen was no longer optional.

Stepping into the wide, unfamiliar corridor, I navigated the foreign layout for roughly a minute before arriving outside Beatrice’s designated quarters. I offered a quick, courtesy rap against the wood before pushing the door inward, only to find the room completely vacant, the sheets neatly undisturbed.

Downstairs, the playlist shifted abruptly into a chaotic, syncopated electronic rhythm. The intense vibrations traveled upward through the structural beams, causing the floor beneath my soles to throb violently. In any other context, like operating a high-performance vehicle at lethal speeds down an abandoned desert highway, that specific, adrenaline-inducing tempo would have been incredibly exhilarating.

Forcing myself to shake away that distracting, reckless fantasy, I quickened my pace down the grand staircase, heading straight toward little Timothy’s bedroom. Peeking inside, I discovered him wrapped in a blanket, completely dead to the world, emitting soft, rhythmic snores. It was a genuine shock to realize that even a seven-year-old could maintain such a profound level of sleep amidst a sonic disturbance of this magnitude.

Stepping quietly to the side of his mattress, I leaned down to press a gentle kiss against his brow, gently brushing away a few coarse, unruly curls that had fallen across his skin. He had been a mere toddler of seven when our mother passed away; consequently, while the rest of us possessed a rich tapestry of vivid recollections regarding her life, Timothy was left with almost nothing.

I inhaled a ragged, steadying breath, my eyes drifting toward the framed photograph resting on his nightstand, which captured the entirety of our family unit in happier times. In the image, Mother was radiating pure, unadulterated joy, her smile stretching from ear to ear while the rest of us were hopelessly entangled around her torso, a chaotic mess of overlapping limbs and genuine, unchoreographed laughter directed at the lens. A sharp, stinging sensation flared behind my eyelids, signaling the arrival of tears, but I consciously forced the moisture back down.

I was absolutely resolute in my determination not to weep; I had intentionally locked away my tears from the very moment circumstances forced me to step up and become an unyielding pillar of strength for the remaining members of this family.

Silently pulling the door closed until the latch clicked into place, I turned on my heel and began walking down the opposing wing of the hallway to determine if Marcus required any sustenance. Given the sheer volume of chaotic noise filtering up from the ground level, it was glaringly obvious that a massive, unbridled social gathering was underway below, and the prospect of navigating that sea of strangers without an ally was deeply unappealing.

Without bothering to knock—fully operating under the assumption that he would be completely unconscious and dead to the world—I pushed his bedroom door open, only to let out a sharp, horrified gasp, my palm instantly flying upward to seal my lips shut.

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry." I blurted out, rapidly retreating into the hallway and pulling the door shut with a snap, my entire body cringing in absolute revulsion at the visual I had just inadvertently consumed.

Ew!

A low, internal groaning vibrated in my chest.

Witnessing my own flesh and blood entangled in an intimate encounter with a random, dark-haired woman was precisely the kind of psychological trauma my empty, starved stomach did not need to process. And to be completely objective, she was a remarkably stunning brunette. She possessed the kind of flawless, high-fashion aesthetic that looked as though she had been pulled straight from the glossy pages of an elite style magazine.

"Sorry!" I muttered under my breath, acutely aware that the deafening volume of the house music made it physically impossible for them to catch my apology, before turning to sprint toward the lower level.

It was entirely clear that no one was going to rescue me; I was going to have to summon my own courage, woman up, and handle this expedition entirely on my own.