Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena) by Marina Adair

wounds, she told herself. It had nothing to do with the man saying it. “But she is mine, which means no blurring the lines.”

T he parking lot of St. Helena Hospital looked like a scene from one of those natural disaster films Harper loved so much. People cluttered the street and the sidewalk, talking in high, frantic voices—and all Emerson could think was, please, God, no . Because behind the three flashing fire engines, five squad cars, and endless queue of white-robed patients, each barefoot, and each dripping with water, sat Violet.
    All by her six-year-old self. No one looking out for her, making sure she was okay. Nope, she sat on the bench with droopy curls and what had to be the sorriest face on the planet.
    “Violet,” Emerson called out as she exited her car, but the ear-splitting alarm drowned out her voice.
    Heart in her throat, she ran across the lot, scanning the area for the rest of her sister’s Lovelies. Fear mixed with intense fury when she found them and their soggy sashes a good fifteen feet away, standing on the opposite side of the exit, huddled around their leader. Who was paying zero attention to the lonely Lady Bug.
    “Violet,” she called again.
    Her sister looked up, and Emerson felt her stomach bottom out because Violet’s face went wide with relief that the cavalry was there, then crumpled as she leaped to her feet. “Sissy!”
    Emerson had barely made it up onto the curb when Violet locked her little arms around her big sister’s waist. Emerson pulled her in tight, breathed in the scent of glitter glue, bubblegum, and wet polyester—and that’s when she noticed her hands were shaking.
    “Are you okay?” she asked. God, let her be okay.
    Violet’s head moved up and down, but she didn’t release her grip. Which was fine with Emerson, because she could use a moment to gather herself. To process the fact that the little soul her mother entrusted her with wasn’t hurt. Wasn’t crying.
    Wasn’t dead.
    She needed to get a grip. A-SAP. Because it didn’t matter if she felt like throwing up or that her heart was beating so hard she was certain it was going to blast right through her chest, Violet needed Emerson’s strength right then, not her worry. The poor kid had dealt with more worry than any person should ever have to.
    “What happened?” she finally asked, kneeling in front of Violet.
    “Someone pulled the fire alarm,” Violet said quietly. “And all the sprinklers went off. Then everyone started screaming, and I tried to tell them it was only water and to stay calm like you always say, but nobody would listen. Then Lovely Leader Liza told us to exit the building in a single file.”
    Emerson felt her pulse beat a little slower because Violet was safe, the alarm had been silenced, and the firemen were now milling around. It was just a false alarm. But it seemed no matter how many false alarms Emerson had lived through, they never got any easier.
    “Then why did you separate from the group?” Emerson schooled her features because they’d had this talk before, and she was certain if she lost it right now they’d have it again the second she turned her back. Violet was a wanderer—just like their father. The biggest ice cream sundae in the world would be wasted on her since she wouldn’t be able to sit still long enough to get through the first scoop. “Rule number seven is—”
    “Always stay with the group,” Violet said diligently, giving a pretty good impression of Emerson, making her wonder if she really sounded that uptight. But when it came to her family, rules were the only thing keeping Emerson sane.
    “You.” Emerson pointed to the other bugs. “The group. See the problem here?”
    “Rule number two is to respect my elders,” Violet said. “And Lovely Leader Liza told me to sit on the bench.”
    “Why would she tell you to sit by yourself if she thought there was a fire?”
    Violet toed at the ground for a good long minute, her fairy wings