Page 3 of Brother's Keeper

Having reached the end of his brief exploration, Donovan looked back at me. “I guess I’m not sure why this was your solution. There are other hotels in town, you know.”

I leafed through the pots and skillets stacked on thegas range. Those were washed, at least. “Too public,” I muttered. “People might see us coming and going.”

He hugged his arms around his chest like he wished he could shrink from his surroundings. “You’re at the Capitol five days a week. If someone wanted to find you, it’s not hard.”

I wasn’t worried about myself.

Silence flooded the houseboat’s cramped cabin. With my back to my brother, I betrayed nothing except being far too interested in cookware when my kitchen skills went as far as boiling water. Still, he managed to read me.

“Not this again.” Donovan groaned.

My brow quirked. “Not what?”

“The princess in the tower bullshit.” He opened the bathroom and poked his head in.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied.

After a brief inspection of the space, he straightened and slammed the door shut. “My whole life, Fitch. You ran off with the gang while I sat at home.” He pinned me with a scowl. “I was a shut-in. I’m not doing that again.”

I spun around with a saucepan in my hand, thrusting it toward him. “You’re the one who wanted Grimm left alive.”

Now two weeks past, that moment had changed everything. I had our gang leader moments from death, and my brother convinced me to spare him.

“How many times are you gonna throw that in my face?” Donovan’s cheeks puffed with a breath.

“At least once more.”

His dark eyes met mine as he squared up for a fight. He’d learned from watching the older guys peacock andposture, but he was all talk. As a human in a magical society, my brother’s options for combat or self-defense were limited. He could punch me, but I could crush his hand. We played on different fields.

After a long moment, Donovan’s shoulders sagged. “Fine. But I’m not hanging around this gross boat while you roam the city. I’m not as helpless as you think I am.”

“Gross boat,” I grumbled. Dropping the saucepan into the dented steel sink caused a chain reaction of clatters and clangs.

It was easier when he was younger; when he hung on every word I said and believed every lie I told. Donovan didn’t know the half of what he missed out on, languishing in the room at the Lazy Daze Motel while I “ran off with the gang.” He watched cartoons; I killed people. We had a routine. When I got home, we talked about whatever book he was reading or new show he’d found. Then we sat up in bed until the wee hours when he fell asleep and the TV broadcast cut to gritty static.

That reminded me of our newfound selection of VHS cassettes, a mix of ‘80s classics and a few B-films I’d never heard of. I wandered over to the built-in cabinets—particle board with bubbling laminate pasted across the top—and began sorting them. With any luck, there might be a homemade sex tape in the mix.

Behind me, Donovan perched on the corner of the bed. “What does Grimm think about me not being around anymore?”

Heshouldhave been thinking how lucky he was that I’d only taken my brother and not his life. Turning Donovan against me, or trying to, was an unforgivablesin, but Grimm never apologized. He acted like the assassination attempt didn’t happen, addressing it only once in the most dismissive way.

“All children rebel,” he’d told me. “Young wolves challenge the pack alpha. It is expected. One day, you may surpass me. Until then, I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

He’d made good on that. Sharing a nine-to-five at the Capitol forced us into close proximity, of which he took full advantage. No private meetings, though. He always approached me in plain sight, doling out attention that made me feel like either the teacher’s pet or class dunce depending. But the fact that he never spoke to me alone anymore betrayed apprehension he refused to show any other way.

“Does it have a name?” Donovan asked, pulling me from thought.

“Huh?”

“The boat,” he said. “Don’t they usually have names?”

“Oh, yeah.” It had been listed in the advertisement and was sloppily stenciled on the outside. “LiquidAsset,” I told him.

After a pause, Donovan confessed, “I don’t get it.”

I sighed. “Me neither.”

With a battered copy ofThe Terminatorin my hand, I leaned against the cabinets. “It’s ours now, though. We can call it whatever we want.”

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