The Next Line ( The Lineage Series #2)

Joshuan

The front door closes behind me with a soft click.

For a second, I just stand there—motionless, weightless. My keys dangle from my fingers, the bloodstained hoodie still clinging to my back, and the ache in my chest isn't from the week without sleep.

It's from watching the girl I love bleed out in my arms.

And knowing I couldn't stop it.

The house is still. No music. No kitchen noise. That heavy, suffocating silence that presses down on your skin like it wants to crush the soul out of you.

I drop my keys on the side table.

They sound too loud. Too alive.

My foot shifts, and the floor creaks under me.

That's when I hear it—

"Joshuan?"

Her voice breaks the silence.

Soft. Gentle. Maternal in a way only a mother's voice could ever be.

I look up.

My mother stands at the top of the grand staircase in her silk robe and slippers, hands wrapped tightly around herself. Her curls are pulled into a low bun. No makeup. Bare face. Just tired eyes and a heart that's clearly been through the same seven days I have.

She comes down slowly, every step filled with hesitation, as if she's afraid to hear the answer to the question on her tongue.

I wait at the bottom, unmoving.

When she reaches me, she rests a hand on my cheek.

"Is she okay?"

I don't speak right away. The words feel too fragile. Too real.

Then I nod, just once. "Yeah."

Her body folds with relief, and she clutches my hoodie. Her head presses into my chest as she whispers, "Gracias a Dios." (Thank God)

I wrap my arms around her shoulders, breathing in the scent of lavender and warm sugar. My mother always smells like comfort. But nothing feels comforting right now.

"She woke up a few hours ago," I say softly. "She couldn't feel her leg. Her ribs are fractured. There's... there's a lot."

Luz pulls back, hands sliding down my arms. "But she's awake?"

"She's awake."

"Did she ask for you?"

I nod again.

"She always asks for me."

Something flickers in her eyes—pride and heartbreak wrapped in one. Then she looks me over and exhales sharply.

"You haven't eaten. Haven't slept. Haven't even changed."

"I couldn't leave her."

"I know," she whispers. "I know, mijo."

I pull away gently and rub my face with both hands. My skin feels paper-thin.

"Is Papá in his office?"

She nods slowly. "He hasn't left all day."

I clench my jaw.

"Good."

The hall to my father's office has never felt longer.

Maybe it's because I'm exhausted. Maybe it's because I'm burning. But each step toward those heavy mahogany doors feels like walking into war.