Chapter 3 - The Second Floor Sanctuary
While Silas hid in the shadows and Asher sought out conflict in the streets, Marcus Cavanaugh spent his existence burning through money and gas line.
At nineteen, Marcus was the handsomest of the brothers, possessing their mother’s fine boning and their father’s cold, dark eyes. He was enrolled at a local university he rarely attended, preferring to spend his time in the sprawling six-car garage behind the main estate, surrounded by the smell of high-octane fuel, leather, and hot metal.
To Marcus, the house was merely a place to crash when his blood alcohol level was too high to risk driving through the gated community's security checkpoints.
It was two in the morning on a Thursday when Nell heard the crash from the kitchen.
She was staying in the small staff suite on the ground floor—a room Julian had allocated for on-call help. Wearing a thick navy bathrobe and slippers, Nell moved quietly through the dark hallways until she reached the kitchen.
The light over the stove was on, casting long, amber shadows across the island.
Marcus was sitting on the floor, his back propped against the refrigerator, a broken glass jar of marinara sauce shattered between his outstretched legs. Red sauce was smeared across his white designer t-shirt and the knuckles of his right hand. He was soaking wet from the rain outside, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, smelling strongly of tequila and copper.
He was trying to pick up a piece of jagged glass with trembling, bloodied fingers.
"Leave it," Nell said, her voice cutting through the hum of the refrigerator.
Marcus looked up, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He let out a wet, breathless laugh. "Ah. The new recruit. The big lady." He pointed a shaking finger at her. "Don't touch me. I'm... I'm handling it. I'm cleaning up."
"You're cutting your hands to ribbons," Nell said.
She stepped over the pool of sauce, knelt beside him without regard for her bathrobe dragging on the tile, and gently caught his wrist. His skin was burning hot, but his hands were shaking violently.
"Let go of me," Marcus muttered, though there was no force behind the command. "My dad pays you to sweep, not to touch me."
"Your dad isn't here," Nell said, her voice dropping into a firm, motherly tone that admitted no argument. "And right now, I'm the only person standing between you and an infection that will ruin those hands you're so proud of."
She pulled his hand away from the glass. The cut across his palm was deep, oozing dark red blood over his wrist.
She reached for a clean dish towel from the counter, wrapped it tightly around his palm, and applied steady pressure. Marcus winced, his teeth clicking together, and for a split second, the arrogant mask slipped. Beneath it was a terrified boy who looked far younger than nineteen.
"It hurts," he whispered, his head leaning back against the steel fridge door.
"I know," Nell said softly. She used her free hand to brush the wet hair away from his forehead. "Physical pain is honest like that. It lets you know you're still alive when the rest of you feels dead."
Marcus stilled. He looked at her through heavy eyelids, his breathing ragged. "What do you know about it?"
"More than you think, sweetheart," Nell said. "I've cleaned up enough broken glass to know it never goes back together the same way. But that doesn't mean you have to bleed over every piece."
She helped him to his feet, guiding his trembling frame toward the staff bathroom down the hall. He stumbled, leaning his considerable weight against her broad shoulder. Nell didn't flinch; she braced herself, holding him steady with an arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him along step by step.
In the bathroom, she cleaned his palm with antiseptic, ignoring his sharp curses, and wrapped it in neat, sterile gauze. Marcus didn't fight her. He sat on the edge of the porcelain bathtub, watching her broad, calm face as she worked with methodical precision.
"Why are you still here?" Marcus asked as she taped the bandage down. "The last one... Mrs. Gable... she left because Asher threw a lamp."
"A lamp is just glass and wire," Nell said, closing the first-aid kit. "I've seen worse things thrown with less reason."
May you like
She handed him two glass bottles of water and a pair of aspirin. "Go to bed, Marcus. I'll clean the kitchen floor. And if you drop another jar tomorrow night, I'm making you sweep it up with a whisk broom."
Marcus looked down at his bandaged hand, then up at her. He didn't laugh. He didn't offer a sarcastic remark. He simply took the water, stood up, and walked out of the room, his footsteps heavy and slow on the marble tile.
