The Lost Daughter

CHAPTER EIGHT.

The days continue like this.

Every day I'll spend time with one or a combination of any of my brothers, getting to know each other more and more as well as doing things I've never done in my almost-eighteen years; be a teenager.

On a few of these days—starting just after I arrived—Wyatt and I spend hours lounging in the recreation room in the place I've dubbed as "our wing" of the house, where I've discovered only hold the bedrooms of the four of us. He scoffed at me every time I told him I hadn't seen a movie or a TV series he loved so he took it upon himself to show me what I was missing, in his words.

Until, of course, Wren inevitably came along to drag me away, claiming it wasn't healthy to spend hours flopped in the same position while mindlessly watching Netflix. Or, maybe it was all the junk food Wyatt shoved at me while we did it.

And I loved it all. The hours spent with all of them were a lot of fun in the case of Wyatt, heartfelt and meaningful when it came to Weston, or a sort of mixture in the time I was with Wren.

They all have different personalities, which I got the sense of very early on, but which blossomed the longer I spent with them. It was incredible getting to know them, and the ensuing bond that forged felt unbreakable.

There were days where Wes would disappear with Jackson—who I don't think has slept anywhere but at this house since I've gotten here, every morning I've woken up just as the sun's rising to find him already in the kitchen drinking his black coffee—and I've gotten the impression my brother is intentionally keeping that part of his life a secret, for whatever reason, so I've let him.

Even as he does, I still spend every night sleeping next to him like a child. Mostly, it's in my room but sometimes, usually when it's getting late and I'm falling asleep hanging out with the rest of the boys, he'll have to practically carry me up and leads us to his room instead.

It looks shockingly similar to how I've grown to know him, a lot of hard blacks and grays mixed with some oceanic blues and simple, minimalistic, but masculine furniture and if I had to guess, Wren designed this room too.

Those nights, I'm fast to fall asleep. Muttering a quick goodnight, brother before I'm out.

Other nights, we stay up for hours. Talking about everything and nothing. I tell him more about our mother, what growing up with the weight of the responsibility she forced on me felt like. How hard some years were. I tell him about the dreams I would have of him, how they wouldn't let me forget him even if my mother tried to make me, and how it felt when our father handed me the photo that showed us both.

In turn, he whispers to me how empty he felt since the day I was taken from them. How he grew up with countless photos, and videos, and stories of me that made it both harder and easier, in a way, to deal with knowing I was gone because he never thought for a second I would end up anywhere but right here, eventually.

He doesn't say much about our father, but I read between the lines. There's a tension there I feel every time they're both in the same room, which isn't very often.

When I see him, he was all the things he was when I met him. Compassionate, understanding and clearly a man who loves his children. The problem is, he's not around often. I see him sparingly around the halls nearest to his office, though sometimes he'll wander into the kitchen in the early mornings while Jackson and I maneuver around each other with light barbs or cold stares, already dressed in an immaculate suit.

From what I've been told, over the years his businesses and investments exploded. He started with this town, Hillcrest, building on what his family already owned and expanding on it to where the King name is now; legendary here. He didn't tell me specifics, just implied that there isn't much in this town that he doesn't have something to do with.