Page 13 of Ewan

“You can go. And get me a plum juice. Or a grape one.”

She nods and exits the room, leaving behind traces of her sweet perfume.

I watch her vanish before I turn to him.

He already holds his hand up in protest.

“I don’t want to hear anything from you,” he says, the sweet voice he used with her replaced by a gruff one.

Like father, like son.

He can be the kindest man in the world when he wants to, but he can also be a pain in the ass. And he’s becoming worse as he gets older, which is a good thing in our world because the weak never survive.

Still, seeing him pressed into the pillows, with drugs lacing his blood so he doesn’t feel the pain, and a sweet woman as his crutch makes me push some pretty bad words back.

Trying to be the adult in the room, I give him the benefit of the doubt.

Let’s just say that adjusting to our new lives after Margot untimely death has come with some growing pains.

I plant my hands on my hips. “Tell me exactly what happened,” I demand.

Sighing, he tilts his head back and runs a bruised hand over his handsome face. He inherited his mother’s features as well as my eyes, my cheekbones, and my jawline. His hair is slightly wavy when he wears it long, as it is now. And his hands are positively mine––strong and sculpted––only his are less calloused.

Between the two of us, he is more generous with his time and attention than I am.

I’m too rough, and unforgiving––I’ll be the first to admit it––but there’s a good nineteen years between us, and I’ve seen things he never had to see.

Moving his eyes to me, he finally speaks.

“Some idiot hit me at an intersection. He ran the red light, snagged me, tossed me to the ground, and vanished. Someone took a picture of his plate, and they got him.”

I tense up, recollecting I had run a red light on my way here.

“The cops did?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who he is?”

He gives me a chiding look.

“I don’t want more problems,” he says.

I lift my hand, and walk around his bed before sliding into the only chair in the room.

“No problems. I need to check him out and make sure it wasn’t intentional.”

He crosses his arms over his chest then winces and remembers his ribs are not in the best shape.

He slides his arms down.

“Why would anyone intentionally hit me?”

I lift an eyebrow at him.

“Is that even a question?”

He dismisses me with a gesture.

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