Page 193 of Midnight Curfew

“He calls you his stepsister,” I point out. “Not his sister.”

Her shoulders shrug. “Oh, that’s okay.”

She’s trying to make light of it, but she’ll be a lot better off if she starts asking some questions and taking responsibility for herself.

“You’re not Anna-Katherine to him.” I stroke her hair with the brush. “You’re Sophia.”

I hear her swallows and her head bows a little.

“Callum is going to turn into him,” I tell her.

He may always love her and try his best, but the stress and darkness of his world will spill over onto her. Maybe it’s an associate who gets ahold of her at a party here. Maybe the Wolfe Room finally has its way with Callum’s head. Maybe he has to send her away to keep her safe.

She won’t be the princess of their own personal castle forever.

“He likes me,” she says, fighting for him. “He cares about me.”

“He does. You thought Garrett did, too.”

She sucks in a breath, and before I can dial it back, her head is shaking back and forth. Like it did when she was freaking out with Callum.

Fuck.

“No, no, no…” She starts crying, hunching over.

I throw the brush down. “Anna-Katherine, look at me.”

But she jumps off the stool, runs around me, and escapes back into the foyer, her footfalls hitting the stairs in heavy steps.

“Shit!” I growl.

Son of a bitch.

“Anna-Katherine!”

I charge into the foyer and start up the stairs, hearing her cry. Why the fuck did I say that to her?

Am I right? Yes. She should be thinking about herself and protecting herself and getting the fuck out of this town!

But it doesn’t do her self-esteem any good to imply that Callum doesn’t care about her. He’s the only one who hasn’t failed her, even if he is a fucking dickhead.

I should just leave.

I grab the banister and haul myself up the steps, though, running to her room. Pushing open the door, I see her holding her head and crying.

How close is she to falling completely apart?

I take her in my arms, pressing her head to my chest as she shakes. “Dancing bears,” I say, trying to remember the words. “Painted…wings.”

Fuck, I don’t remember any more.

“Dancing bears,” I start to sing again, hoping she helps. “Painted wings.”

Come on, honey. She shakes, and I already feel her tears seeping through my shirt.

I hear her voice, though. “Things I almost rememberrr…”

She keeps going, and I pick up the tune, joining her on the chorus as our breathing settles in sync.