My Heart, His Spare Part

Kianna Johnson POV:

It was late when we finally returned to the house. The damp air of the docks clung to us, a cold reminder of the night's events. Grant's existing injuries were clearly exacerbated. His face was drawn, a pale mask against his dark hair, but he still moved with that infuriating, silent efficiency, guiding Dariana gently inside before turning to me.

Dariana, however, was not so quiet. "I can't believe you, Kianna!" she whined, her voice cutting through the quiet evening air. "Dragging Grant into such a dangerous place! You saw how much he was hurting. He almost collapsed!" She clutched her arm theatrically, as if she were the one who had sustained injuries.

I stopped dead in the hallway, turning slowly to face her. I hadn't looked at her directly since the hospital, but now I did. Truly looked. When she had first arrived, a timid, trembling girl, I' d genuinely felt for her. I' d offered my room, my clothes, my time. I remembered buying her books, trying to find gentle activities she could enjoy. I' d wanted to be a real sister to her, for Grant's sake, yes, but also because I truly pitied her fragile state.

But now, the image of her pressing her hand on my head underwater, her eyes alight with malice, flashed in my mind. The transformation was chilling. It had been gradual, I realized now, watching her. Slowly, subtly, she had grown bolder, more demanding. Each time I had indulged her, thinking I was being kind, she had taken another inch, then another. She had used my genuine empathy, my misguided desire to please Grant, as a weapon.

"Dariana," I said, my voice flat, devoid of any warmth. "Go to your room."

She froze, her mouth agape. The theatrics drained from her face, replaced by genuine shock. No one, least of all me, had ever spoken to her like that. She looked like a deer caught in headlights, her eyes darting to Grant.

Grant, without a moment's hesitation, stepped forward, placing himself slightly in front of her. A small, protective shift in his stance. My heart, already a bruised mess, tightened painfully. There it was. Always her.

I didn't argue. I didn't fight. I just turned and walked into my room, closing the door behind me with a soft click. The sound was surprisingly final.

The next morning, Grant was at my door, just as he always was. He looked even paler under the fluorescent lights, a stark contrast to his dark suit. His left arm was tightly bandaged, but he stood tall, his shoulders squared, an image of unwavering duty.

"Good morning, Kianna," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Dariana has been disciplined. She understands her actions yesterday were inappropriate and endangered your safety." He sounded rehearsed, like a robot reciting lines.

I merely glanced at him, then continued to sip my lukewarm coffee. I didn't ask what "disciplined" meant. I knew it would be a slap on the wrist, a gentle reprimand. Dariana was never truly punished.

"She's confined to her room for the next few days," he continued, a slight defensiveness in his tone. "And I've ensured she won't interrupt your schedule." He seemed to expect praise, or at least, acceptance.

"Confined to her room?" I finally looked at him, my eyes cold. "For endangering my life and manipulating you into a potentially fatal situation?" My voice was quiet, but it held an edge that made him flinch. "Is that what you call 'discipline,' Grant?"

He dropped his gaze, his eyes fixed on the spotless floor, avoiding my stare. A hint of shame, perhaps? Or just discomfort at being questioned?

Just then, Dariana materialized at the top of the grand staircase, looking like a ghost in a flowing white nightgown. She descended slowly, one hand on the banister, the other pressed to her forehead. "Oh, Grant, my head hurts so much," she moaned, her voice weak and breathy. "I think I have a fever." She cast a quick, furtive glance at me, a flash of triumph in her eyes before she perfected her portrayal of suffering.

Grant immediately moved to her, his hand gently touching her forehead. "Dariana, what are you doing out of bed? You should be resting." His voice was laced with concern, a stark contrast to the distant tone he'd used with me. The golden tether pulsed, a bright, undeniable connection between them.

I watched, a bitter taste in my mouth. She was a master of manipulation, and he, her willing puppet. My heart twisted, not with pain, but with a profound weariness. I pushed my coffee cup away, the sight of it suddenly nauseating.

I stood, ignoring both of them, and walked into the living room. From the doorway, I caught a glimpse of the kitchen. Grant was gently spoon-feeding Dariana a bowl of oatmeal, his head bowed, murmuring soft words of comfort. She smiled up at him, a genuine, radiant smile full of a possessive delight. It was the same tender smile he used to give me, the same intimate gesture I thought was mine alone.

A bitter, self-deprecating laugh bubbled in my throat. Men. So easily fooled by a pretty, fragile face. So easily manipulated by carefully curated tears.