Page 39 of Tethered Souls
Can’t stop.
Leno has the most to gain. It wouldn’t be the first time a second son killed the firstborn. But other members of the Family, capos and soldiers and wannabe climbers, have tried to claim the throne in his honor for years, and he’s never once embraced them.
Maddox is a little shit, but his pranks, his games have never gone anywhere near this far. I can see him shooting me with a paintball gun, but to shove a blade into my back, only just missing my heart?
My jaw clenches. I hammer my right fist four times into the bag before hitting it with my left.
The scar burns.
The memory the ward triggered becomes a little more in focus, and I can almost recognize that damn soap...
But then it’s gone again.
And all I’m left with is the end of my deductions.
Only Talon and Rudy remain, and Rudy abhors violence.
There is a reason I made him a cleaner. So he can come in after everything is all said and done and work with the peacefulness of death. Even when it’s dirty. Even when the bodies are butchered and no longer look human like with Jerry, Rudy prefers the silence to the screams.
Not that his world is ever silent.
His innate power is more like a curse and one I wouldn’t want even if it gave me magic. Even if it meant I would no longer be an abomination.
My punches start to weaken as I think about Rudy being the traitor. Out of all of my brothers, his betrayal would hurt the most.
I taught him how to ride a bike when Father left. Patched up his skinned knees. Told him all about the Roman Empire and the Mongolian one and the lost city of Atlantis as he fell asleep on my lap, terrified of his dreams, of his magic slipping free to haunt him. I killed the monsters in his closet and under his bed, gained my first three scars because of them. He can conjure the physical manifestations of one’s greatest fears, and I faced mine and his every night.
He is only nine years younger than me, but I almost see him as a son. A boy I raised and protected. Who I taught sign language to because Mother was hit by magic while he was still in her womb, so he was born mute.
Pulling on all my grief, I start to funnel it into a strike. But then I catch the whiff of waffles right outside the door.
Closing my eyes briefly, I let my arm drop, my emotions settle. I turn to grab the towel off the bench just as the door opens. My senses all run to her as she steps inside the gym. I can smell the flour and sugar that clings to her hands, can sense the rapid beat of her heart that increases with every step she takes.
And I can feel the pull between us. The same one that pulled me to her room last night, caused me to seek her out rather than wait for her to come to me. To ask her about her dreams. To be bothered that she doesn’t have any, hasn’t put herself first at all. Even I have dreams. And I can feel the pull to go to her now, to find comfort in her presence despite the pain in my chest.
Rubbing the towel, I clean the sweat off my face.Our child might die because of me.To pursue anything between us would be wrong.
“Put it down and leave,” I say without turning to look at her.
I can practically feel the stiffening of her spine, the hot glare of her eyes as she tries to kill me with it. I am finding Micha Black does not take well to orders. And I’m finding that just makes me want to give her more.
“Yes,sir,” she says, no hint of respect in the mockery of those two words. She draws closer, the hairs on my neck aware of her every movement, and stops at the bench right beside me. After placing the plate down, along with a bottle of syrup and a set of cutlery, she turns to leave but stops halfway round.
Her eyes narrow as she snatches the fork up and offers it to me. “Hold this,” she says.
“You’re leaving.”
“You can’t, can you? Because you fucking destroyed your hands.”
“It’s none of your concern.”
“I didnotspend the last hour making you waffles just for them to go cold becauseyou can’t hold a fork.” She glares at me, her lips tight. “Now sit.”
Surprise flickers across her face when I do.
“Any other orders?” I drawl.
She blinks, a blush spreading across her cheeks. Then she snatches up the plate. After smothering the waffles in syrup, she raises the fork to my lips. “Open,” she says briskly, but there’s a slight strain to her voice. Holding her gaze as I try to discern what’s turning her on, I slowly part my lips.
