Page 48 of Burden of Proof

I raised my hand and frowned at my older brother. “I’m gonna stop you right there.”

“Hunter.”

“I’m sure he appreciates your brotherly concern, but I think it’s safe to say that he and I have had conversations the two of you have probably not shared together.”

Marshall turned toward me, and I wanted to ask him when he’d gotten so old, when he’d gone so gray around the temples. Sometimes, in my head, we were still young. Finn and I teenagers, Marshall almost twenty, all of us still a few years off from Smith’s arrival.

Growing up under the watchful eye of Willem Covington had been a trial for the whole lot of us, but we’d come out mostly unscathed, if not extremely protective of each other’s interests. Our brotherhood was different from most. We all understood that, even if we never spoke about it, and seeing Marshall spread that out to someone who wasn’t even partially related to us by blood sent a shock of emotion through me that I didn’t have the words to explain. Lincoln needed to have people looking out for him, we all did, but where was that same care and grace for Andrew, our actual brother?

“I’m fond of Lincoln,” Marshall answered. “He’s Silas’ best friend, and as long as Silas wants to be with me, Lincoln will have a place as well.”

“Are you talking to me as my brother right now or a concerned surrogate father?” I asked.

A different server dropped off our sandwiches, and at the sight of the melty swiss cheese bubbling out from beneath the toasted bread, my stomach growled.

“Can’t it be both?” he asked.

“Did you have a talk with Lincoln too? About being gentle with your dearest brother?”

“I didn’t think I needed to,” he said.

I frowned, picking up half of the sandwich and taking a bite so I didn’t have to answer him. It was a good sandwich. Different from my usual corned beef in just about every way possible, but tasty still in its own right. I chewed and swallowed, took another bite, and repeated the process.

“You’re right,” Marshall said, setting down his half-eaten sandwich. “You’re my brother, of course I need to.”

I bit the corner of my tongue and stared down at my lap, swiping my greasy fingers across the flimsy white napkin and hoping it would be enough to stop my hands from staining my slacks.

“I don’t need coddling,” I told him. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s not coddling, and you know it.”

I thought about the revelation that my brother lived and breathed dominance in his private life, that even though there’d been instances in our youth when he’d conceded things to me or Finn or Smith, even though there’d been times he had to cave in or that he faltered, Marshall was as he’d always been. Calm and collected, and very much in charge of his life and the people in it. After all, he was the first person I’d called when I found out about Andrew’s existence. He was the one I’d gone to for guidance. He was apparently also the one Lincoln had sought out during his own confusion and struggles. Marshall was thepatriarch of all our lives, whether we liked the mess that made or not.

“I like him,” I told my brother. “Sincerely, I do. Even though there’s things…God, I don’t want to go into this with you.”

He chuckled and picked up his sandwich again, raising it halfway to his mouth. “You don’t have to, believe me.”

“I just…I have good intentions with him, with the whole thing.”

Marshall finished the bite he was chewing, then polished off the rest of the half before turning his attention to the pickle spear on the side of my plate. He made quick work of it, then reached for mine, which I gave him freely.

“I know you do,” Marshall said, licking pickle juice from his fingers. “I can’t think of a better man for him than you.”

I snorted, rolling my eyes. “I’m confident that’s not true.”

Beside me, Marshall went still, and without much thought, so did I.

“If he can do better than you, then you shouldn’t be with him,” he said. “And if you don’t think he’s the best choice for you…”

My breath hitched in my throat, and I balled my napkin up in my hand, tossing it onto the counter. “It’s new, Marsh.”

“You’re a smart man, Hunter. Smarter than most.”

“I appreciate the vote of confi?—”

“I want the best for you,” he said, cutting me off. “I want the best for Finn and for Smith and for Silasandfor Lincoln too.”

“You’re a bleeding heart,” I muttered, flagging the waitress down for a box.