Page 66 of The Butcher

I heard my mother’s quiet laugh before I rounded the corner.

He was at the head of the table like it was his fucking house, blond hair and blue eyes. He sprang into action right away, rising to his feet and pulling his gun out of the back of his jeans and aiming at me within a second. The laughter and merriment of dinner quickly evaporated when the tension set in. Music played from the sound system, but it was masked by the tension.

I’d honored my mother’s request and had come unarmed, but he had no such honor.

“Godric.” Mother rose to her feet and pressed her hand down on his arm.

It didn’t budge. In fact, he cocked it.

She gripped the opening of the barrel. “Put it down.”

My brother’s face was contorted in restrained rage, treating me like a hit man who’d murdered his entire family for a cheap paycheck. He had a structured jawline like I did, the same eyes. There was no doubt we were of the same parentage. After a furious standoff, he lowered the gun.

Mother twisted it from his fingers and confiscated it before clicking the safety. “Bring a gun to dinner again, and I’ll bend you over my knee and spank you like a child.” She slammed the gun onto the table next to her soup bowl. The table was long enough to fit fifteen guests comfortably, but it was just the two of them together near the window.

Godric’s stare remained latched on mine. He was in a long-sleeved shirt, so the ink on his arms was hidden from view. He was tall like I was, muscular because he lifted every morning and night, always determined to be bigger than me. “I trusted you, Mother. That won’t happen again.”

“Trust hasn’t been betrayed,” she said. “My only desire is for my sons to speak to each other.”

He turned his gaze on her, his rage restrained. “You set me up?—”

“I want my sons to speak to each other.”

He gave her a furious stare before he turned away from the table, kicking his chair hard and making it tip over then slide across the rug. “Alright, let’s talk.” He raised his voice to a yell so all the staff throughout the house could hear. “What does this shithead have to say?”

I was still on the other side of the room, looking at my brother thirty feet away, standing in the dining room that had vaulted ceilings twenty feet in the air. The curtains were pulled awayfrom the windows, showing the lights of the city outside, the drops of rain that stuck to the glass.

“Speak, boy.” He gave a loud whistle, calling me like a dog.

Mother gave a quiet sigh as she watched this derail before it even could start down the track.

I knew he was pissed that his own mother had personally bested him, and like a child, he was throwing a tantrum. I moved to the sitting area and took a seat in one of the cushioned armchairs. I crossed one ankle on the opposite knee then gestured to the other armchair for him to sit.

He stared at me, his breaths visible in the way his chest rose and fell. He walked past the table, snatched the water glass off the surface, and threw it against the wall on his way, missing my head by a few inches. It shattered, and water soaked into the rug.

I didn’t react.

Godric dropped into the armchair across from me, his forearms on his knees as he leaned forward, giving me that lethal stare.

Moments passed. The music continued to play overhead.

The butler and guards entered the room to investigate the commotion. Someone turned off the sound system.

We continued to stare each other down.

Mother approached us near the coffee table, wearing black trousers and a tweed vest, a coat hanger draped in jewelry. With her hands together at her waist, she looked at us both. “I only have one son at any time, and I would like to have two. There is nothing more sacred than the blood you two share, the blood of emperors, the blood of power. It’s a shame to waste this lifeas opponents rather than allies.” She looked at each of us before she grabbed the gun off the dining table and exited the room.

The silence was deafening, so stagnant it made the air stale. I stared at blue eyes identical to my own but saw a man who couldn’t be more different in every way that mattered. We used to get along as kids, but once we became adults, our morals and politics ripped us apart like a thin sheet of paper.

He didn’t speak, just continued to stare me down like a cockroach he needed to squash.

“It’s just a conversation.”

“A conversation that won’t change anything—and therefore, a waste of time.” He sat back and slouched into the chair, his elbow propped on the armrest with his closed fist against his hard chin. “A fucking waste of time.”

“I don’t want it to be this way.”

“You aren’t the only one who shares that sentiment.”

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