#sister!reader

Every maester and ladies maid had also done their duty diligently, but it was of no use. This union was sure to tear you apart from the inside out of discomfort, you were certain.

The babe kicked softly inside of you, a twisted reminder of the legacy you carried, but tonight didn’t bring solitude as it usually did. Daeron pushed through, his staggered princely frame silhouetted by the torchlight coming from the corridor, wine only softening the edges, his features still striking and clear. Those violet eyes desperate with lust beneath tangled golden locks. He shut the door with a thud, bolting it with loose fingers before stalking closer, eyes raking over you in a heated gaze, devouring.

"Sister.." He rasped, slurring just enough for it to drip with a desperate need, closing the distance with a raw hunger, boots scuffing the underskirts of the ruffled blankets. He sank to his knees before the bed, hands spreading your already parted thighs, “Gods look at you..” his fingers traced the seams of your nightgowns’s material, tiptoeing up your legs as he clasped them at your hips, “All swell and ruined with his brat, I’ve dreamt of it.. you, your scent, your..”

“Daeron.” You warned hand pressing at his forehead to prop him up to face you, warmth falling into your cheek as his face looked up at you, eyes pleading and jaw tight. Though it fell flat, the strangle of a moan bubbled inside your throat, refusal dying right then and there. And he felt it, the familiar tick under stubbled muscle, teasing the plump of his lips with his wanting tongue.

“I need it, need your taste.” He whined out, fingers clutching restlessly at your skirts, voice muffled by his falling into your lap, pressing into the flesh of your legs over material. He breathed in deeply, embracing you, consuming himself with you from need alone. His need. You did your best to prolong it, make excuses of the hour, of the wrongness, of your changing body, unsure and insistent.

But he hushed it, all of it, your worried not able to take flight, the finality of his minor tantrum suffocated with the way he shoved his head between your thighs without shame. Soft, tender licks testing through your soaked folds, already slick and wet with arousal and hormone, your inner lips puffy and swollen from your engorged state.

Your hands found their way to his hair, stroking it back and out of his face as your legs parted, granting him. He groaned deeply, nose firming into your core as he lapped at you, muscle sucking and sliding through your cunt and gathering every savouring taste of you. You supported your hand to your belly, the other straining his face closer to you, his fingers clutching over your own.

“Feel that.. my nephew kicking while I fuck his mother with my tongue.”

His words sent a wave of pleasure beneath you, the demanding hold of his fingers and tongue allowing you to feel every bit of pressure under the skin. Daeron shook against you, tongue swiping quickly through your wetness, rocking your clit onto the bridge of his nose, sparks igniting at the new pleasure. The one hand stroked your knuckles carefully, reassuringly, guiding you dutifully through every arch of your back and shockwave he was creating from his mouth, the other teasing two fingers between you, tight beneath his lips.

“That creature doesn’t know how to please you does he sister..” You shook your head, wanton moans and guilty whines falling from your open mouth. The feel of his fingers at level with the unrelenting force of his mouth tugged your forward, a burning sweep of arousal spurting from your hole before you could pull away. And he did not let you, clamping you down to the bed as he made you take it. Giving in to him..

His two thick digits scissored you open, muddled by the mess of his tongue sucking and asserting over your sensitive clit, you came with a cry around him, juices dribbling around his chin. He took all of it, edging you through your overstimulation, your hips rocking instinctively against his him as your breathing shifted, a ragged calm.

He pulled away only when you shoved him hard enough, fingers moving his head from you to escape the aching sensation, emitting a sharp annoyed groan from the center of his chest. But he remained there, kneeling on the floor beneath you, eyes gentle, fingers soothing over your thighs and drying the threatened tears of bordered pleasure-pain from your cheeks.

“You are divine.. far too good for him my love.”

“You must not say those things Daeron.” Your voice was hushed, chest rising and falling still chasing the high that buzzed through you.

“And yet,” He rose slowly, stumbling back onto his heel, fingers tracing your cheek, a loving tease, the lopsided smirk curling his lip. “You were almost begging for your brother to take you.”

“I was not..” You were, you both knew it.

He shushed you, leaning down pressing a firm, chaste kiss to your lips, humming against them. You could taste yourself, a sweet savour of where his mouth had been.

“You must rest now Sister, your husband should be joining you shortly..” He punctuated the title on purpose, inching out of the door with a wink and a slight skip in his step, so shamelessly you swore you heard a giggle from the corridor as he left.

Victor sought Father’s praise like a starved thing. You avoided it like a flame and paid no mind to the backhanded comments he would give about painting being a useless skill.

It made you opposites from the very beginning.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The Frankenstein estate was a place of echoing halls and candle-shadows, but to you, it always smelled faintly of salt when the wind was right. Every morning, your mother would open the windows and let the breeze tumble through the house. Every morning, Victor would wrinkle his nose. Every morning, you would breathe a little deeper.

Your mother noticed it before anyone else, the way your eyes lingered on color, on light, on the shape of certain objects you found interesting. She bought you your first paints when you were six, even though your father said it was frivolous.

“Il n'est pas frivole de donner une langue à un enfant," (It is not frivolous to give a child a language.) she told him firmly.

And painting became exactly that for you. A language that didn’t require permission. A world where your father’s indifference was irrelevant, and Victor’s intensity softened around the edges. So you painted everything. The mountains, the trees, your mother’s hands, Victor’s shoes when he sat too long beside you and got bored.

Victor would lie on the ground beside you, staring up at the ceiling, talking about the things he wanted to build one day. Machines. Theories. Impossible creations.

“How will you do that?” you’d ask, smearing blue across a canvas.

“By refusing to accept the world as it is,” he’d say.

You found that amusing about him, the way he believed the world should bow to understanding. He loved that about you, the way you accepted the world completely, even its ugliness, and still found beauty.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Your mother had always been the warmest part of the house. Someone you could always confide in whenever you were troubled or just a pillar of stability that kept both you and victor grounded. So when you heard her scream echo through the estate your heart dropped, it felt as if the world fractured.

You remembered candlelight. Shadows. The smell of iron drifting through each room. Victor’s hand clutched in yours, his fingernails digging into your skin as if he could anchor himself to you alone.

Your father shouting instructions in the distance, someone rushed for hot water, people pacing under the frantic precision of a man trying to control something uncontrollable, and you stood at the bottom of the stairs, frozen, listening.

Then silence.

Silence shouldn’t be that loud. But it was. A moment later, a cry, a thin, wavering newborn wail that sliced through the house like a blade. Your father exhaled shakily.

The midwife whispered “A boy.” Victor stared ahead, lips bloodless, eyes shining with a mixture of dread and something like betrayal. You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

It wasn’t until a servant touched your shoulder gently that you realized your fingers were trembling. Then your whole body.

“She’s gone.” you murmured.

Something inside your chest cracked. A painting doesn’t split with sound, it splits in silence. That was what happened to you.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

They had covered the mirrors. They draped black cloth across the windows. The house felt like it was holding its breath, as if grief itself was walking the halls and must not be disturbed. You couldn’t look at your brushes. The colors felt indecent. The idea of doing something your mother introduced to you without her support felt heavy.

Victor stayed close, though he pretended he wasn’t hovering. He’d appear in doorways, leave food by your side, sit at the foot of your bed with a book he didn’t read.

“Tu devrais peindre," (You should paint) he said once, quiet. Out of concern. Out of desperation. Out of a need for you to stay… you. But you shook your head.

“Pas maintenant. Pas sans elle." (Not now. Not without her.)

He didn’t push. Victor never pushed you the way your father pushed him. Instead, he sat beside you until the candles burned low, his expression distant, wounded, furious at a universe he could not dissect or fix. But more furious at your father for allowing your dear mother to perish.

William cried down the hall, tiny, helpless and motherless. You tried not to hate him for it. You tried not to think of the life that traded places with hers. But mostly, you felt nothing at all. Just numbness where color used to be.

And so some years passed.

William grew into a bright-eyed, curious little boy with a laugh that bounced down the halls like sunlight refusing to be swallowed by the gloom of the estate. You loved him. You really did. But painting? That part of you had died with your mother. Or so you hopelessly believed.

Until the day William wandered into the sitting room, tugging at your dress.

“Is this yours?” he asked, pointing at a small painting leaning against the wall, one you had done when you were nine, a childish but earnest seascape full of bright color.

“Yes,” you said softly. “A long time ago.”

William blinked at the canvas, wide-eyed. “It’s beautiful.”

You froze. Beautiful.

He said it with the same certainty your mother used to. As if beauty wasn’t subjective, as if it simply was. He turned to you with a shy excitement, cheeks rosy.

“Why don’t I see you paint anymore? I wanna see more.”

Your throat tightened. No one had asked you that in years. Not kindly, anyway. Victor had asked out of worry. Your father never asked at all.

But William asked out of wonder. Out of genuine admiration.

“I…” You swallowed. “It’s been a long time.”

He tilted his head in that childlike, heart-wrenching way. “But you can still do it, right? Right? You’re the best in the whole house.”

The whole house. You almost laughed. This gloomy, dark, haunted place you’d lived your entire life suddenly felt too small for the earnestness in his voice. Something unknotted inside you. Not quite healed. Just loosened.

“I suppose,” you whispered, fingers brushing against some of his gold curls, “I could try again.”

William beamed, all teeth and joy and innocence.

You spot Victor watching from the doorway, eyes shadowed. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. You could read the quiet resentment in the tight set of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed, the way he looked at William, not with hatred, but with a bitter, aching disbelief. Because Father praised William openly. Because Father held him, taught him, smiled at him in ways he never had with you or Victor.

Because William grew up loved and Victor grew up… hungry for it.

And now William had brought back something Victor thought only he could protect. He had brought color back into your life. It stung him. It frightened him. It made him furious at himself for feeling that way. You turned, meeting his gaze fully. Victor looked away first. And for a moment, just a flicker, you wondered if your brother feared that William’s presence meant losing you, the one person he had relied on long before the world bruised him.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The night Victor changed began on a night that should have been ordinary.

Rain tapped at your window, soft as fingertips. The walls moaned against the blowing winds. You slept curled beneath a quilt your mother had made when you were small, all faded blues and delicate stitching, a relic of a gentler world. Then your door creaked open.

“Wake up,” Victor whispered.

His voice wasn’t urgent. It sounded haunted by something.

You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes. Victor stood next to your bed, candle in hand, shadows carving his cheekbones sharp and hollow. His hair stuck up in frantic, uneven strands, like he’d been running his hands through it.

“Victor…?” you mumbled. “What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?”

“I’m awake,” he said, quickly. “That’s the problem.”

The candle sputtered. Rain lashed the windows. Your brother set the candle down somewhere in your room and closed the door behind him. And you knew that something was deeply troubling him.

Victor sat on the edge of your bed without asking, hands shaking, breath ragged. His nightshirt was wrinkled; he smelled faintly of candle smoke and adrenaline.

“Listen to me,” he said, gripping your wrist like a lifeline. “Just… listen. I’ve figured it out.”

“Figured what out?” you whispered.

“How to stop death.”

Your breath froze.

“No more endings,” he said, voice trembling. “No more empty rooms. No more mothers buried before their time. No more pain we can’t fix.”

“Victor what-”

He cut you off with a wild shake of his head.

“I can do it. I can reverse it. I can reassemble what’s lost and make it breathe again.”

You stared at him, stunned, terrified by the desperation tangled inside his eyes.

“Victor,” you whispered, “you’re talking about-”

“Life.” He leaned closer, voice breaking. “I’m talking about life.”

Lightning flashed and you saw him the way he truly was: A boy who had never recovered from the night your mother died, who had spent every year since trying to understand the shape of grief by dissecting the world around him. A child who thought he had failed her. A twin who feared losing anyone else, especially you.

“Please,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours, “ne me dis pas que je suis folle. Si tu le dis, je le croirai." (don’t tell me I’m mad. If you say it, I’ll believe it.)

Your hands rose to cup his face, thumbs brushing the trembling edges of him.

“I think you’re hurting,” you said gently. “And I think you want to fix something that wasn’t your fault.”

His eyes filled, furious with emotion.

“Mais je pense aussi," (But I also think) you continued softly, “que si quelqu'un peut changer le monde… c'est vous." (that if anyone could change the world… it’s you.)

He inhaled sharply. A sound like breaking, like relief, like something dangerous being set loose.

“You believe in me,” he breathed.

“Of course I do,” you said, brushing his hair back. “I always have.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into your palm like a child seeking warmth. For one fragile second, he wasn’t a boy trying to conquer death. He was your brother. Your twin. Your heart’s other half. Then he pulled away, face hardening with purpose.

“ Then I suppose I have work to do,” he muttered. “Years of it.”

Victor did not sleep for nights after that. Not properly. Not peacefully. You would find him in the study at dawn, scribbling equations you couldn’t understand, muttering theories under his breath. He loved you. But he loved his obsession more. And your father noticed. For the first time in his life, he turned his complete attention toward Victor. Not with affection, but with anger, suspicion, disappointment. You? He still ignored. And you preferred it that way. But the household atmosphere changed. Tightened. Darkened.

Until one morning, the silence broke.

Your father collapsed at breakfast, clutching his chest, eyes glazed with shock. Victor moved first. Hands shaking, shouting for help, trying desperately to hold him upright, as if willpower alone could keep a man alive. You knelt beside him, tears streaming, clutching his sleeve, whispering, “Father, please,” even though you had no idea why you were pleading.

William watched as he cried in a corner, only nine years old, terrified. But no prayer, no scream, no desperate gasp could pull your father back. He died in Victor’s arms and Victor felt it like a personal failure.

“I could’ve saved him,” he sobbed later, pacing in circles. “If I’d started sooner… if I’d worked faster…”

You held him tightly. But nothing reached him...

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

After the funeral, relatives descended like vultures. Whispering. Questioning. Blaming. And in the end, decisions were made without you or Victor. William was to be taken in by distant family friends in Vienna. A “kinder environment.” A “healthier influence.”

Victor overheard one aunt say, “He mustn’t be corrupted by them.”

Victor nearly lunged at her. You held him back with trembling arms. When the day finally came, the carriage stood ready in the courtyard. William stared up at you, eyes wet, lip trembling.

“Do I… have to go?” he whispered.

Your heart cracked in two. You knelt, pulling him close.

“No goodbye,” you murmured into his hair. “Never goodbye.”

He nodded fiercely, gripping your sleeve. Victor stepped forward then, stiff and pale, as if carved from sorrow. William hugged him tightly and to your shock, Victor hugged back, hard, almost desperately.

“I’ll come back,” William sniffled against his shirt. “I promise.”

“We’ll find you,” Victor whispered, voice breaking. “No matter what. We’re your family.”

You rested your hands on both their backs, anchoring them the way your mother once anchored you. The carriage driver cleared his throat. It was time. William looked at you one last time, eyes shining with the fragile faith only a child could possess.

“See you soon?” he asked.

“Yes,” you breathed. Not a lie but a promise. The door closed. The wheels groaned and William was carried away down the long road, disappearing between the trees. Victor’s shoulders shook beside you. The storm inside him had finally lost its last tether to gentleness. You took his hand and squeezed.

“We’ll see him again,” you whispered.

Victor didn’t speak. But he squeezed your hand back. Hard. As if he needed you to keep him from falling apart.

The arena still smelled like cold metal and sharpened blades.

Even after the crowd had thinned and the bright competition lights dimmed to a softer glow, the scent lingered in Y/N’s lungs as she unlaced her skates in the locker room. Her thighs burned from the routine. Her right ankle pulsed with every movement. And somewhere beneath the adrenaline and exhaustion sat the same heavy feeling she’d carried since the moment her blade hit the ice wrong during the quad attempt.

Not enough rotation.

She already knew before the judges flashed the scores.

Third place.

Respectable to everyone else. A failure to Phil Graham.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she shoved her guards onto her skates. Around her, girls laughed and hugged coaches while cameras flashed outside the room. Someone told her she skated beautifully. Another complimented her performance.

Y/N smiled politely through all of it.

Because none of those people mattered.

Not when Phil Graham was waiting outside with disapproval on his face.

Y/n was sitting in the stands and staring at the ice, replaying her performance in her mind and hating herself for the mistake. She could not bring herself to face Phil.

Even if she had an off-campus studio apartment, she still drove home every weekend for practice and sometimes during the week as well. Y/n spent more time with Phil and trainers than anyone else, which meant escaping his wrath was unavoidable.

Ice skating is not an easy sport, she had fallen on the ice several times, bruising her body. Even now as she was better, her body was still covered in bruises, some of which were because of Phil.

She hadn’t dared tell anyone. Of course Garett knew about Phil’s abuse, but as they got older and Phil stopped hitting Garett, he thought the same applied to y/n as well. But y/n wasn’t strong enough to fight her father, so she just stayed silent and decided not to drag Garett into it.

Suddenly, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Thought you’d still be hiding in here.”

Garrett leaned against the frame in his dark Briar hockey hoodie, one shoulder carrying that effortless confidence people always noticed first. But Y/N knew him too well. Knew the tightness around his mouth meant he was watching her carefully.

“Hi” she mumbled tiredly.

He snorted. “Come on, stop hiding, let’s go. I’ll take you home.”

A tiny smile tugged at her lips despite herself.

Garrett pushed off the doorway and walked over, grabbing one of her skate bags before she could protest.

“You got third at nationals,” he said. “That’s insane.”

“I was supposed to land the quad.”

“You were also supposed to not look half dead afterward.”

“Had too much training the day before, was too tired.”

The sentence had too many things hidden inside. Too much training was a given, but it never exhausted y/n, it was Phil’s hits from yesterday that left her body aching and struggling to comply during the competition.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You spend too much time around figure skaters.”

For a second, things felt normal.

Back before hockey practices and competitions and separate apartments and college schedules stretched the distance between them.

Garrett had always been the shield between her and their father.

Until he left for Briar.

Not intentionally. Life had simply happened. Hockey consumed him. Figure skating consumed her. Calls became texts. Texts became occasional check-ins. Even now that y/n got accepted to Briar and continued her studies there, the distance between those two remained. There was just not enough time in the day, and even if it were, Phil would force y/n to practice more.

And Phil—

Phil got worse when nobody was watching.

“You see Dad?” Garrett asked casually.

The question stiffened her spine instantly.

“Mm.” She shoved a sweatshirt over her bruised shoulders. “He left after scores.”

If Phil was here he would have approached y/n with fury a long time ago. Not encountering him, meant he left and was most likely waiting to unleash his disappointment later, in private.

Garrett frowned but didn’t look concerned. Why would he? Phil always iced them out after losses. Silent treatment was practically tradition in the Graham household.

“He’ll get over it,” Garrett said.

Y/N forced another smile.

Sure.

Eventually.

Outside the arena, freezing wind whipped against her face. Reporters still lingered near the entrance barriers while athletes hauled luggage through slush-covered sidewalks. Garrett tossed her bag into the backseat of his Jeep before climbing in beside her.

“You hungry?”

“Too tired to eat.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

She leaned her head against the cold window. “Maybe.”

“Perfect. Then I’ll stop by Malone’s and get us something.”

Garett went to drop y/n off before heading to get take out. The drive back to her apartment was mostly quiet. Garrett filled the silence with random complaints about his coach and teammates while she listened with half-closed eyes. It felt strangely comforting. Familiar.

Safe.

When they pulled up outside her building, Y/N made a move for the door.

“You go rest,” Garrett ordered. “I’ll get takeout and be right back.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know. That’s why it’s called being nice.”

She rolled her eyes weakly.

“There’s leftover pasta upstairs.”

“Tragic. I’m still getting burgers.”

Y/N laughed softly under her breath as she climbed out.

Inside the apartment, warmth replaced the icy bite of the night air. She dropped her skate bag beside the couch.

Silence flooded the apartment.

Y/N exhaled shakily.

Her body ached now that the adrenaline wore off completely. She moved slowly around the kitchen, setting out plates mostly to keep her hands busy. The apartment lights were dim, casting soft shadows across the counters.

Then—

The front door unlocked.

Her stomach dropped instantly.

Garrett never knocked, but he also never came back that fast.

Slowly, Y/N turned around.

Phil Graham stood in the doorway.

Still in his dark coat from the competition.

Still wearing that expression.

The one that made her feel eight years old again.

Disappointment.

Cold. Sharp. Controlled.

“You embarrassed me tonight.”

Y/N swallowed hard. “Dad—”

“A triple?”

His voice stayed dangerously calm as he stepped inside.

“A fucking triple.”

“I lost the landing edge—”

“You played safe.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Every instinct in her body screamed.

Y/N took a careful step backward. “I still placed.”

Phil laughed once under his breath.

“Third.”

The word sounded filthy coming from him.

“You think third matters? You think sponsors care about third? You think coaches remember third?”

Her pulse pounded violently now.

“Dad, please—”

“You got scared.”

“I was injured—”

His hand slammed against the counter beside her hard enough to make her flinch.

“Don’t make excuses.”

Y/N’s breathing shortened.

She knew this version of him.

The dangerous one wasn’t the yelling.

It was the quiet.

“I trained you better than that,” Phil said. “Do you understand how much money I’ve spent on your skating?”

She stared at the floor.

Wrong move.

His fingers caught her jaw instantly, forcing her head upward painfully.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Fear crawled cold beneath her skin.

“I said I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“That’s your problem. Sorry is all you ever are.”

Then he shoved her.

Hard.

Y/N stumbled backward into the edge of the kitchen island, pain exploding through her hip. Before she could recover, Phil grabbed her arm and yanked her upright again.

“You had one job tonight.”

“Dad—stop—”

His grip tightened.

“You’re weak.”

The words hit almost harder than the shove.

Weak.

Too emotional.

Too soft.

Too fragile.

All the things he’d called her since childhood.

Phil’s hand struck her across the face so fast her vision blurred sideways.

The ringing in her ears came first.

Then pain.

Y/N gasped, stumbling into the dining chair.

“Stand up.”

Her body froze instead.

Wrong choice again.

Phil moved toward her—

And the apartment door suddenly opened.

Garrett walked in holding a paper takeout bag and two drinks balanced in one hand.

For one single second, nobody moved.

Garrett looked from Y/N clutching the side of her face—

To Phil towering over her—

To the terror on her expression.

The takeout bag slipped from Garrett’s fingers.

Fries scattered across the floor.

And Garrett froze completely.

Like every buried memory had just ripped itself back open.

Like his body had stopped functioning before his brain could catch up.

The sound of the takeout bag hitting the floor echoed through the apartment, but it felt distant. Muffled. All Garrett could hear was blood rushing violently in his ears as he stared at Y/N.

Her hand pressed against her cheek.

Fear in her eyes.

Phil standing over her.

And suddenly he was back in his house again.

Standing in the kitchen while his father slammed him against cabinets after a bad hockey game.

He was a child, hearing Y/N crying quietly through the bathroom door while she insisted she’d “just fallen during practice.”

He was back in his childhood room, promising himself that once he left for Briar, things would finally stop.

Because Phil didn’t touch him anymore.

Because Garrett got bigger.

Stronger.

Because eventually he learned how to shove back.

But Y/N—

Oh God.

Garrett’s stomach twisted violently.

Phil turned first. His expression barely shifted, like getting caught meant nothing.

“Garrett.”

That calm voice snapped something inside him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Garrett’s voice came out low. Dangerous.

Y/N flinched at the tone automatically.

Garrett noticed immediately.

And that hurt almost worse.

Phil straightened slowly. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Garrett laughed once. Sharp and disbelieving.

“You hit her.”

“She needs discipline.”

Before the last word fully left his mouth, Garrett crossed the room.

Fast.

He shoved Phil backward hard enough that the older man stumbled into the counter.

“Don’t touch her,” Garrett snapped.

Phil’s face darkened instantly. “Watch your fucking tone.”

“No,” Garrett barked. “You watch yours.”

Y/N’s pulse thundered painfully as both men squared up in the middle of her kitchen.

For a terrifying second, they looked identical.

Same broad shoulders.

Same furious eyes.

Except Garrett looked horrified beneath the anger.

Phil recovered quickly, sneering. “She blew the competition.”

“She got third in nationals!”

“She failed.”

Garrett looked like he might actually swing at him.

Y/N pushed herself upright immediately despite the sharp ache in her ribs. “Garrett.”

He ignored her.

“All this time you’ve been acting like some proud fucking parent while you’re doing this?”

Phil scoffed. “You think you know anything about pressure? About what it takes to make champions?”

“No,” Garrett said coldly. “I know what it takes to make your kids terrified of you.”

Silence cracked through the room.

Phil’s jaw clenched.

Then his eyes slid toward Y/N.

Disgust.

Blame.

Like this was somehow her fault.

“You should’ve kept your mouth shut,” he muttered.

Garrett stepped directly between them.

“Get out.”

Phil laughed quietly. “Or what?”

Garrett took one step closer.

And suddenly it was obvious.

He wasn’t a scared teenager anymore.

Phil saw it too.

Something uncertain flickered across his face for the first time all night.

“Get,” Garrett said again, voice shaking with rage, “the fuck out.”

The silence stretched heavily.

Then Phil grabbed his coat.

“You’re both unbelievable,” he muttered before heading for the door.

The apartment slammed silent the second he left.

Garrett stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen.

Breathing hard.

Still staring at the door like he couldn’t fully process what had just happened.

Y/N slowly lowered herself into one of the dining chairs, pressing an ice pack from the freezer against her ribs with trembling fingers.

Neither of them spoke.

The room felt unbearably quiet now.

Garrett finally turned around.

And the second he really looked at her, the anger on his face cracked apart.

Her cheek was already bruising.

There were fingerprints forming on her wrist.

And she wouldn’t look him in the eyes.

“Y/N…”

His voice broke slightly.

She swallowed hard.

“I’m okay.”

Garrett actually looked offended by the words.

“No,” he said immediately. “No, don’t do that.”

She stared down at the ice pack.

He dragged both hands through his hair, pacing once through the kitchen before stopping again.

His breathing still sounded uneven.

“How long?” he asked finally.

Y/N’s grip tightened around the ice pack.

Garrett’s eyes searched her face desperately.

“How long has this been happening?”

Silence.

The kind that answered everything before words ever could.

Garrett’s expression slowly changed.

Confusion first.

Then realization.

Then horror.

“No,” he whispered.

Y/N blinked quickly, eyes burning.

“Y/N.”

She stayed quiet.

Garrett stepped closer. “Did he—” His voice failed entirely. He swallowed hard. “Did he keep doing this after I left?”

Still nothing.

And Garrett looked like he was falling apart standing there.

“Please answer me.”

Y/N’s chest tightened painfully.

Because she knew what the truth would do to him.

“I didn’t want you distracted,” she whispered weakly.

Garrett stared at her.

Like he physically couldn’t understand the sentence.

“What?”

“You finally got away from him in a way, not completely but enough to just not worry all the time you know,” she said quietly. “You had hockey and Briar and your team and—”

“So you let him hurt you instead?”

The words came out harsher than he meant them to.

Y/N flinched instantly.

Garrett closed his eyes like he hated himself for it.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, stepping back. “Fuck, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Don’t say that.”

His voice cracked completely this time.

Y/N finally looked at him.

And Garrett looked wrecked.

Actually wrecked.

“I should’ve known,” he whispered.

“You couldn’t have.”

“How?” he snapped suddenly. “How could I not know?”

His eyes darted over her face again like he was trying to replay every interaction from the past few years.

“The bruises…”

“I skate, Garrett.”

“Excuses.”

Garrett turned away sharply, pressing both hands against the back of his neck while breathing unevenly.

“Jesus Christ…”

His voice sounded sick.

“He stopped hitting me and I thought…” Garrett laughed bitterly to himself. “I thought maybe he was done.”

Y/N stayed quiet.

Because what could she even say to that?

Garrett suddenly looked back at her, eyes glassy with anger and guilt.

“All those times you said you were sore after training.”

She looked down.

“All those times you canceled plans.”

Silence.

Garrett’s jaw tightened violently.

“And I just believed you.”

Garrett just stared at her.

Part of him had wanted to believe everything was fine.

Because the alternative was this.

His little sister sitting in front of him bruised and shaking while holding an ice pack against broken trust and probably broken ribs.

Garrett crouched down in front of her suddenly.

Carefully.

Like he thought touching her wrong might break her further.

“Hey.”

Y/N finally met his eyes again.

And Garrett looked devastated.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology sounded torn out of him.

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I left you with him.”

“You had to go to Briar.”

The tears Y/N had been holding back finally burned over.

Garrett noticed instantly.

“Oh, y/n,” he said softly before he could stop himself.

That did it.

Y/N broke.

Just silent tears sliding down her face as years of fear and exhaustion finally cracked open.

And Garrett…. Garrett looked like watching her cry was killing him.

_willsmith2 why am i catching strays rn? ❤️ by author

y/n.mackinnon idk what ur talking about that text was adorable and that's a very cute picture of you _willsmith2 ur right i love you so much! mackcelebrini #whipped

_willsmith2 the prettiest girl in the world ❤️ by author

y/n.mackinnon my pretty pretty princess!

user1 when's the song dropping diva

user2 u are my inspiration for everything

user3 i love a man who yearns ❤️ by author

mackinnon29 Why do I never get invited on your hikes? ❤️ by author

y/n.mackinnon bc you're always gone playing stupid puck game 💔 y/n.mackinnon and my boyfriend always is too life is torture

user4 that's such a cutie skirt!

user5 y/n and her polka dots 🥹

mackinnon29 Fits are fiiiiiiiirrrrreeeee 🔥 ❤️ by author

y/n.mackinnon ooooh so hip w the kids mackinnon29 I'm 30. y/n.mackinnon ok unc

user6 y/n calling nate unc is frying me 😭

user7 oh to be as musically gifted as y/n

mackcelebrini not enough smitty in this post ❤️ by author

y/n.mackinnon you have enough pics of him in your phone to stare longingly at _willsmith2 can we not do this y/n.mackinnon or better yet, just give him a little kiss! you're closer than i am 💔 user8 willmack!!!!

user9 rockstar boyfriend?? more like hockey star boyfriend!!!! ❤️ by author

user10 how does she know how to play so many instruments

user11 princess william patrick charles smith

user12 oh we're full naming him ok

coloradoavalanche The coolest girl in the Rockies! ❤️ by author

user13 mama y papa

user14 i love when hot people date hot people

user15 everybody shut up my show is on

mackcelebrini bff in law ❤️ by author