Page 4 of Beat of Love
Rafferty woke with the urgent need to pee. He pushed upright. And groaned at the stab of pain across his chest.What the—?
The events of the past days rushed back.
The jungle. The attack.Esther. The rescue. Coming home.
Home. He was home.
And he had passed out.
Fainted.
“Fuck.”
“Ah. He wakes.”
A shadow crossed before the closed drapes.
The shape took form.
“Sully.”
“Hello, brother.”
Rafferty swung his legs off the bed.
The room tilted.
Hetilted.
“Easy does it.” Sullivan reached out, steadying him, stopping him from face-planting on the floor.
“Need to piss,” he grumbled, the pressure on his bladder intensifying.
Sullivan stepped to the side, sliding one arm around his back, the other hand gripping his bicep.
Rafferty hated the need for assistance, but he’d hate pissing his pants more. “Thanks,” he mumbled, standing.
Together, they shuffled across the floor, moving from carpet to wood to tile. The cool ceramic beneath his bare feet gave him a jolt, and the light streaming in from the unadorned window cleared the lingering haze. He lifted his head and straightened his spine. “I can manage.”
Sullivan’s hold on him eased, and he took a step back, remaining close.
Rafferty wanted to banish his brother from the bathroom but also didn’t want to add concussion to his host of ailments. He took care of business and doddered to the basin, priding himself on making the short distance without help, even though his body moved like that of an octogenarian. He rinsed his hands and splashed water onto his face, taking a moment to breathe in the clean and fresh smell of the soft cotton Sullivan handed him. Dropping the towel, he studied the side-by-side view of him and his twin in the mirror.
Their difference was startling. Once, people couldn’t tell them apart.
But not anymore.
And it went deeper than his gaunt appearance.
His rancid life had etched itself into his features, giving him a sinister mien. The close crop haircut revealed the tip of his tattoo above his right ear where the scorpion tail curled around the red rose. Fresh guilt infused with deep sorrow surged through him.I am so fucking sorry, Charlie.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Startled, he met Sullivan’s gaze in the mirror.Did you just read my mind?
His brother’s lips curled in a wry smile. “Yeah.”
Fuck. As children, they had read each other’s thoughts as clearly as the spoken word. Over the years, they had learned to control the psychic bond, and when he embarked on his fatal trip, Rafferty had closed the mental link. But in his weakened state, his defenses lowered.
