Chapter 19 – Scarlet's POV
Apparently, being blind doesn't stop you from seeing awkward tension.
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The bathroom door creaked open as I stepped into the hallway, wrapped in warmth and damp dignity. My skin was dry, my uniform freshly steamed — thanks, Devon — and I was technically presentable.
Technically.
But I couldn't see a thing. Still. And what I felt?
A thick wall of silence.
They were waiting. All four of them.
Not like friends.
Not like brothers.
Like wolves watching something unfamiliar walk back into their territory.
The air was sharp with unsaid things. Shoes shifted against tile. Breath held. A slow exhale from someone tall — probably Draven. A grunt — Damian. Devon's soft heartbeat, too loud to be calm. Dexter? I could practically smell his grin. And anxiety.
"You guys really suck at pretending you weren't waiting outside the door," I said flatly.
No one answered.
Then Dexter chuckled — dry and nervous. "She's blind, not psychic. How the hell did she know?"
"I heard all your awkward guilt particles vibrating through the air," I muttered.
"Sounds accurate," Devon added with a cough.
I crossed my arms. "Let me guess. Draven's leaning on the wall being intimidating. Damian's burning a hole through the floor with his temper. Devon's pretending to be fine but isn't. And you, Dexter, are probably sitting upside down for no reason again."
Dexter's voice chirped. "She gets me."
"You're getting too comfortable," Damian snapped.
That wasn't playful. Not even close.
His voice burned hot — low, annoyed, like he was holding something back. "Just because she's in our hallway doesn't mean she belongs in our space."
Devon let out a long, tired breath. "Damian—"
"No," Damian cut in. "We're not a babysitting squad. We're not a halfway house for unstable mysteries. And I'm not okay with her being here like we're just... cool now."
I swallowed.
The heat in his tone wasn't just anger — it was fear. Mistrust. Deep and loud and boiling.
Draven spoke at last — cold, steady. "Then leave."
The room froze. I froze.
Draven's words weren't cruel. Just final.
"I didn't say I wouldn't protect her," Damian muttered, low. "But that doesn't mean I trust her."
"None of us do," Draven said quietly. "That's not the point."
I shifted on my feet, the tension folding in like a stormcloud.
And then it happened.
I missed a step.
The ground tilted under me — maybe a dip in the tile, maybe my own tired feet — and I started to fall forward.
But I never hit the ground.
Strong arms caught me mid-air. One second I was upright, the next I was tossed—
Over a shoulder.
"DRAVEN?!"
He didn't respond. Just walked forward, carrying me like a sack of rice.
"WHAT IS HAPPENING— I have legs!"
"They failed you," he said flatly.
Dexter was cackling behind us. "And once again, Draven wins 'Most Emotionless Heroic Act.'"
"Put me down," I demanded.
"No," Draven replied, like he was commenting on the weather.
"This is humiliating!"
"Better than falling."
Damian groaned behind us. "We're actually doing this? She trips and suddenly she gets a ride?"
"She tripped," Devon said softly, "because she's blind. Because of what we just saw."
"She tripped," Damian snapped, "because she's not one of us. And deep down, we all know it."
The words stung more than the stumble.
I wanted to say something smart. Something sharp.
But I just… stayed quiet. Slung over Draven's shoulder like a half-dead princess.
Dexter opened the door ahead of us. "All hail the Queen of Denial and Her Royal Backpack Form."
"I'm going to curse your toothbrush."
Devon walked beside us quietly. I felt his presence, heard his heart falter again.
"I'll make tea," he murmured. "Everyone's emotions are… sharp."
That was his way of saying "we're a mess and she's in the middle of it."
When Draven set me down — carefully, like I might break — I didn't speak right away.
Because I knew the truth now.
They were helping me. Feeding me. Guiding me.
But they didn't trust me.
Not yet.
And honestly?
I didn't blame them.