Even if that wasn't really his name, not even before Lumyn had taken him from Nightshade and tried to make him whole. Before Lumyn, Jayden's name had been Malcolm Rijk Kaer. However, not one person had called him Malcolm - not one. Not even Robin, who all things considered, was his best friend. They all called him Rijk. He was Rijk because that was the only name that they could use after Sorcha and Briant and even Koen left, the only word they could use to address him that didn't make him fall completely apart.
But Alex still called him Malcolm, even when she knew better. The first time they had met, it had been on the beach. Robin had appeared out of nowhere, jumping through the sand with that stupid smile on his face, grinning ear to ear like it was the best thing in the world to see his partner-in-crime again. But the minute he said "Malcolm", the world burst into flames and the Nightshade Grunt was thrown to the floor, collar fisted in his friend's olive hands. "I'm not Malcolm, I'm not, " there was snarling in his ears, fingers shaking around the thin fabric, eyes blown a bright, nearly fanatical blue. No one called him Malcolm because Malcolm meant slave and that only brought back memories of blood and bruises and a family that wasn't real. They called him Rijk because they couldn't handle anything else.
But she was different. Even when she died and came back, and he had a new name, Jayden, she still refused to call him that. "Malcolm, " she would laugh at him, the sound harsh and biting and familiar all at once. "Malcolm", she would sob into his shirt when they met again. "Malcolm," she would murmur when they kissed in the early morning, rolling around in a creaky bread with springs that didn't quite work.
Even Zombie-Alex was the same. As her skin peeled away into the sky, her eyes rolling into the back of his head, there was only one word on her cracked lips. Malcolm.
He asked her, once, why she called him that. Why she called him that when she knew that he hated it, that it ressurected emotions and feelings that he'd spent the majority of the time pushing down. Why did she call him "Malcolm" when it brought memories of pain and torture and brothers that wanted you to bleed instead of be?
And she looked at him, like that was the craziest thing he could've ever said to her, and say, "Because that's your name. You're Malcolm." He trembled at the word, and so she'd bring her hands to his face, a surprisingly delicate gesture. "Malcolm, " she said, kissing him because that's the only thing she knew how to do. She wasn't soft or quiet or gentle. She didn't know how to ring stories or words to make him feel better. "That's your name. You're Malcolm." And even on those nights, when he shook and trembled and screamed so loud the walls shook, when he could see nothing but the blood of people he'd broken, she'd grip his arms and yell, "Malcolm! Wake up, it's me. Malcolm!" She never, not once, called him anything else. No sweet endearments like honey or sweetheart or love. She didn't call him Rijk or Jayden or Kaer. She called him Malcolm.
And for some reason, when she said it, he could forget about the torture and pain and anguish. He could forget about the millions of time his brother had dug a heel into his abdomen, sliced a knife against his skin. Instead, he could remember the millions of times she'd kissed him, touched him, chosen him.
