Page 69 of That Sik Luv

“But, h-he only has one...so you have...” I shake my head, squinting my eyes before blinking them open to face him again. “Saint is your...” My mouth is as dry as a desert as I try to cope with the fact that the man before me is practically a spitting image of the opulent, most powerful man himself.

Callum Westwood.

The father of Saint.

The man who couldn’t stand the idea of his son’s ceremony coexisting with a woman’s.

The man who practically funds the town, the church, and everyone residing here with his wealth and high status.

Hispristineandsqueaky cleanstatus.

With the long strands of dark hair pushed back, the strong cut jaw, these high, defined cheekbones, the slope of his nose, all of it resembles that evil, powerful man. All except the stunning swirls of emerald and amber in those daunting hazel eyes.

“Half-brother,” he says casually as ever, still staring directly through me. “Technically speaking.”

“But then that would mean...”

“Fornication. Extramarital affair. Yes, darling, the prestigious man himself fucked a woman that wasn’t his wife and knocked her up.”

My jaw hangs loose, and words are lost to me.

“Can you think of a more heinous crime for a man so polished?” he says, leaning forward again. “Because I can think of a few others.”

The scars on his face. The slash across his eye to the top of his cheekbone, the scar near his lip, and the one lining his jaw. Jagged scars that scream of improper healing.

“What has he done to you?”

“That’s the best part,” he answers carefully, studying my eyes. “He hasn’t done anything to me.”

“W-what do you...mean?”

“Men, like himself, don’t get their hands dirty with the crimes they commit. No trails left behind for the admirable.”

“Your mother...” I begin, my hand suddenly shaking at my side. “Where is—”

“Dead,” he replies flatly.

The tone in which he says it signifies a caged rage that’s brewed beneath the surface from years of restrained torment. A tone that can only signify causation.Callum had his mother killed?

He pushes off the counter before raking his fingers through the hair at the top of his head. His bare chest heaves with a tremendous sigh, the muscles of his abdomen tighten, and I see the tick of his jaw flex again. I can barely wrap my head around this.How does no one know?

How has Aero slipped through the cracks and remained this man, hidden in the shadows? And how could Callum Westwood subject his own flesh and blood to this kind of life of blatant disregard while his other son, Saint, lives like a king awaiting his kingdom?

I understand the hatred now, the jealous aspects he’s been internalizing. He’s had to sit and watch his half-brother live the life he wasn’t allowed.They killed his mother? I can only imagine the horrors he’s somehow survived.

Lightheadedness takes over while my body numbs, and I slump to the side. Aero slips between my thighs, catching me in his arms and sitting me upright again, his forehead suddenly wrinkled with concern.

“Bri,” he whispers, grasping the back of my neck with one hand, his other arm wrapping around my waist.

Darkness threatens to close in on me, but with a few deep breaths, it retreats from my vision. I’m overwhelmed by this realization. Yet, another man they have forced me to look up to as the epitome of moral perfection, a broken and crumbling castle of privilege. The dedication to his church, the town, the dedication to his family. The fucking endless lies.

He hands me a glass from the sink, filled with water. “Drink.”

I hold it with two shaking hands, sipping slowly before setting it beside me. He’s watching me cautiously, studying my movements before my eyes trail up his tatted and scarred body. So many messages scrawled across his flesh. A biblical revelation all his own; stories of struggle and strength covering the muscles rising and falling with each breath he breathes in the world he fought to survive. A world that wouldn’t allow these undeniable truths to live on. My gaze trails back up to the bloomed rose on his neck before finding his face again.

It’s eerie—seeing his father in his bone structure. Seeing the resemblance of Saint in his full lips, the bottom one that sits out slightly further than the top. I begin to wonder if Saint knows about his brother. If he’s ever known. So many questions race through my head.

“How old are you?” I slur in my disoriented state.

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