Page 35 of Alexei

My head snapped to him. “I don’t think so. I have a job to do, and I’m not leaving until the case is solved.”

The predator was my case to resolve.

“What case?” he asked curiously, his posture relaxed but he didn’t fool me. He was digging for information.

“Good try,” I said dryly. “You can keep asking, but I’m not telling. I don’t nose into your work. Don’t nose into mine.”

He chuckled softly. “How did my baby sister turn out so smart?”

“I had four brothers to-” My words faltered, realizing what I said. I had never stopped thinking about Kingston. His body was never found, and he was pronounced dead, but the hope in my chest was never extinguished.

It was still fresh as that day I burst through the door of my home, after running home from the zoo to find Winston lounging in the living room, smoking a cigarette. Byron was fifteen months older than Winston and while our eldest brother did everything right, Winston rebelled at every stage of his life.

“Winston,” I cried, my voice breathless and tears streaming down my face.

Nothing ever rattled Winston. Though that day, something about my voice rattled him to the core. All it took was one word. His name.

“What is it?” he demanded as he shot up straight on the couch, the cigarette in his hand forgotten.

Somewhere in the corner of my mind, I wondered why he wasn’t at his practice. And I worried if our father saw him with the cigarette, he’d box his ears. But none of it seemed as urgent.

“Kingston,” I wailed, my face wet and my eyes burning. “Bad men took my… my K-Kingston.”

Events after that were a blur. The nanny came back, her face a teary mess. But Kingston wasn’t with her.

My little fists pounded on the door. I wanted to go back out there. Winston’s strong hands wrapped around me from behind, holding me back. “You’re safe.”

“My Kingston,” I bawled, the first taste of fear something I’d never forget.

“Yes, Rora.” It was the first and last time Winston called me that. “He’s ours. We’ll get him back. Byron will know what to do.”

Not our father. Byron, who was still a kid, but to me he was a god.

Our nanny called Father. Then the police. Winston called Byron.

And the whole time I cried and remembered the bad man’s words. “Sharing is caring.”

My throat tightened painfully, while a shuddering breath barely found an airway or threatened to choke me.

My heart clenched, the unbearable ache that couldn’t be healed instant. I’d rather break every single bone in my body than feel this heart-wrenching pain. I knew my brothers felt it too.

Though I was only five when Kingston was kidnapped, I never forgot him. None of us did! When I answered questions about my family, I always listed him, hoping he would find his way back to us.

The tense silence filled the car. I knew Byron hurt too. It was a sore subject for our family. Nobody ever talked about the fourth brother, but we all thought about him. He was ingrained into each breath we took.

“Maybe stay at a hotel once we all leave.” Byron’s voice was slightly strained. I reached out my hand and covered his fingers clutching the wheel, his knuckles white. I gently squeezed it in comfort. He might have been overbearing and overprotective, but he hurt too.

“I’ll be fine,” I told him. “I’m always extra cautious. I promise.”

“I couldn’t bear something happening to you, Rora.” His voice was low and hoarse. The glance full of anguish he threw my way just about took my breath away. There was so much pain in his beautiful eyes. I wished I could take it all away and bear it for all my brothers.

Especially since it was my fault.

I swallowed hard. “Likewise,” I rasped. “That’s why I’m doing this.” Then realizing I might have said too much and revealed my field work, I added, “I’m profiling men that could somehow have answers. If not for us, then other families.”

He clenched his jaw. I knew it drove his dominant and controlling character crazy that I didn’t just obey. But this was important to me. It felt like it would turn my life around, putting all my doubts about Kingston to rest. Whether we found him alive, as I hoped, or dead, as I dreaded.

“Then at least let me get someone to keep watch,” he recommended, switching lanes. He masked his expression and suddenly, he reminded me of Alexei Nikolaev. My brother rarely let his pain slip, he kept a tight rein on his emotions. Just like the man I just met.