Page 47 of These Monstrous Ties

“Long night?”

I huff a laugh. “My brother tried to kill me. I got hauled around in a body bag because he doesn’t trust me. And my throat looks like a thunderstorm. So, yeah,” I lift one shoulder in a lazy shrug, “I guess you could say that.”

He smiles. It looks strangely genuine. “A thunderstorm?” he echoes, eyes flicking to my throat.

I swallow. “Yeah. Black and blue with strikes of blinding light, reminding me why it’s best to stay away from storms.”

He’s quiet a moment and then he takes a step toward me, tipping his chin up, looking at the ceiling. He’s going to say something he doesn’t want to say. I wonder if he’s left his guards outside for this very reason. Or maybe they’re in my foyer, hanging onto every word. Wondering how much they’ll be able to rough me up and get away with it now that Jeremiah and I are at odds again.

But we’ve always been at odds.

“Whatever it is you want to say,Brother, spit it out.”

He angles his head down and holds my gaze. “I’m sorry.”

I can’t possibly have heard him right. I frown, shaking my head. “Didn’t quite catch that.”

He slides his hands in his pockets. “I’m not going to say it again, Sid. But last night was too far. It shouldn’t have happened.”

I’m not quite sure my brother isn’t having some sort of seizure. He can’t possibly mean what he’s saying. I shake my head, looking for his angle. Waiting for the next ask. The next thing to make all of this make sense.

But it only gets weirder.

He jerks his head to the edge of the tub.

“Sit,” he says.

“No.”

He rolls his eyes and pushes past me, into the walk-in closet off of my bathroom. “Where are your medical supplies?”

I snort. “Medical supplies? I don’t have those.”

“Band-Aids? Nothing?” he asks, rifling through the cabinet that has normal things like pads and tampons, but nomedical supplies.Before I can tell him to fuck off, he finds the box of Band-Aids I must have had tucked away against the wall in the cabinet.

He pulls them out with a smile and then glances around the rest of my closet. It’s not stuffed full of shit, but what’s in there is a plethora of hoodies, jeans, and sneakers.

“Do you need more money?” he asks me, frowning. “These clothes…this is literally all you wear?” He tugs on the sleeve of a bright pink hoodie.

“Fuck off,” I say, relishing in the opportunity.

He clucks his tongue and lets the hoodie go, coming to stand at the tub again.

“Come on, Sid, sit there, please.”

Please.

My brother never says please. I throw up my hands, wondering if maybe his next tactic is to drown me in the tub, and I sit on the edge, extend my bare feet into the empty porcelain.

He slips out of his shoes and socks and steps over me, sitting on the opposite edge, close to the wall. He grabs a washcloth from the ledge and sets the box of Band-Aids down.

“Here,” he says, indicating his thigh. “Put your foot up.”

“Why are you doing this?” I ask without moving, leaning against the wall opposite him, my feet firmly planted in the tub. “Are you going to inject some poison into my cut?”

“You really are testing my patience, Sid. Just give me your fucking foot.”

There he is.The real Jeremiah peeking through.