I don’t see Ryland again as I return to the store and re-buy all of my ruined groceries.
In fact, I don’t see him or either of the other two men for the next several days.
The usual routines of my daily life continue as normal. I go to the bar every night—though I don’t drag any random men out back with me—and do another temp job on Thursday. Every time I leave the house, I glance around furtively, but I honestly can’t tell if anyone is watching me or not.
If they are, they’re back to being subtle about it, hiding out of sight and not just popping up in front of me like ghosts in a damn haunted house.
I’m not stupid or naïve enough to think they’re actually gone, though. Whatever that strange interaction I had with Ryland was, I doubt it was enough to convince him or any of them to disappear from my life.
But something feels like it’s shifted anyway.
Marcus would barely look at me when they dropped me off at my apartment the night he beat the hell out of Greg, and Ryland made it clear as fucking day that he’s opposed to this entire thing. So maybe he did convince his friend to, if not give up this obsession entirely, at least back off. And Theo? I don’t know. Maybe the startling chemistry that flashed between us when I kissed him scared him as much as it terrified me.
My life feels strangely barren without their dominating, overwhelming presence in it, and I remind myself frequently that this is what “normal” feels like. That I just need to get used to it again, and once I do, it’ll feel like it’s supposed to. Like it’s right.
Of course, even if I don’t see them during the day, I haven’t really escaped them. They still barge into my dreams every night, messing with my head and my heart.
On the sixth morning of this strange new normal, I lie in bed and stare up at the ceiling. The sudden quiet and calm in my life has given me a lot of time to think, and something Marcus said the night I went over to his house keeps rising up to the top of my mind.
I think it’s your brother.
I can still remember the utter confidence in his voice, and something about it plucks a string in my heart, strumming the same note over and over.
Hope.
He seemed so certain that the little boy in the faded picture is really my brother. And even though it’s entirely possible he was just trying to get laid again or tell me what I wanted to hear, I don’t quite believe that.
Marcus Constantine doesn’t seem like the kind of man who tells anybody anything just because they want to hear it.
My search for my brother has always been a long shot. I have a single photograph, no name, and no real memories of my own. Just some half-remembered, fuzzy images in my head and a story a girl from foster care told me.
I’ve done dozens of internet searches, taken trips to the Child Protective Services office, and spent hours poring over old newspapers at the library on the off-chance his name was mentioned there or I could track down another picture of him. I even hired a low-rent detective once when I was fourteen who didn’t do anything but try to put his hand up my skirt.
There’s no reason to think my search will go better this time. I haven’t actively looked for my brother in years, and nothing has changed in the meantime to make me feel like I’ll have more luck now.
But for some reason, for the first time in months, I want to try.
Maybe it’s because of what Marcus said, the way he looked at the photo and then traced the lines of my face so meticulously.
Or maybe it’s because, no matter how conflicted my feelings for the three men are, I can clearly see their devotion to each other. And I want something like that for myself.
I want a family.
I want someone I can trust with everything that I am.
I want someone to watch out for.
Because watching out for myself is fucking exhausting.
Whether a brother I don’t remember and whose name I don’t even know could ever become that to me is something I’ll deal with in the extremely unlikely event that I actually find him.
In the meantime, renewing my search will at least give me some sense of purpose. And it’ll be a much needed distraction from my whirling thoughts.
So I throw the covers off, shower and dress, and then head out of my apartment.
The bus to the Child Protective Services office takes nearly an hour. It’s a roll of the dice to come down here in person. They’re understaffed and underpaid, so all they want to do is get rid of anyone they don’t absolutely have to deal with. But it’s too easy for them to brush me off over the phone. Plus, the only piece of evidence I have is a picture, and that’s useless if they can’t see the damn thing.
The building is a squat, concrete slab. The inside is just as dull and gray as the outside, as if they’re afraid that bright colors will scare the kids or something. When I reach the front desk, a woman with a sweaty brow and a pinched face looks up at me, wheezing slightly as if she just climbed several flights of stairs.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah.” I give her an encouraging smile, resting the elbow of my good arm on the counter. I wore my prosthesis again today, and the straps of the harness sit heavily on my shoulders under my jacket. “I’m looking for information about my brother.”
She squints at her computer. “Your name?”
“Ayla Fairchild.”
She types it in, then leans even closer to peer at the screen. I know she’s pulled up the record of my own time under CPS’s care, and my skin itches uncomfortably as I think of everything she must be reading. Memories I have no desire to revisit.
“You have no record of any known family,” she finally says, as if this will be news to me.
“I know.” I keep the smile on my face, even though I can already feel a sinking feeling spreading in my gut. This is how these conversations always go. “I think there’s been a glitch in the system, or a misplaced file somewhere or something. My brother and I were separated when we were young, and I’m trying to dig up any information about him I can possibly find.”
Her gaze flicks up to me, annoyance flashing in her eyes—as if I’ve accused her of personally taking the file out back and burning it in a dumpster. “We don’t lose entire people here, miss.”
“I know.” It’s getting harder to hang on to my pleasant expression. “I just know that a lot of kids come through here, and I was hoping I could—”
“We can’t give out personal information on any children to non-family members,” she says abruptly.
“Right. But I am his family member.”
“You don’t even know his name.”
“I know, but…”
The conversation only devolves from there. My hand unconsciously curls into a fist as I go around and around with the woman. I’m not sure who’s being less helpful, me or her—but I’m suddenly viscerally reminded why I gave up this search in the first place.
I don’t have enough. Fuck, I barely have anything.
I’m on the verge of slamming my head on the counter in frustration when a familiar prickle raises the small hairs on the back of my neck. Breaking off mid-word, I turn away from the front desk woman and glance behind me.
Marcus leans against the wall near the door, a soft sweater hugging his broad shoulders. He lifts his eyebrows when I catch his gaze, and I wonder how long he’s been standing there.
How much did he hear?
Can he see how close I am to losing my shit?
I don’t want to do that—even less so now that he’s here watching—so I mutter a cursory thanks to the woman behind the desk and then turn and head for the entrance door. I push outside into the bright, mild air, not even bothering to wait for Marcus.
He’s right behind me anyway, stepping through the door after I do and letting it swing shut with a thud behind him.
“I didn’t realize where you were going at first when you left your place this morning,” he says quietly, coming to stand beside me as I gaze out at the parking lot. “You’ve only been here once before that I remember. And I never knew why.”
I make a noise in my throat. His open admission of how closely he’s tracked my movements over the past two and a half years doesn’t even faze me anymore. Nor does the fact that he was watching my apartment this morning.
“Any luck?” he asks.
“No.”
His hand comes to rest on the back of my damaged arm, just above the socket where the prosthesis is attached. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”
It’s not a request, but it’s not quite a command either.
It’s more like… an offer.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. His brown and blue eyes are as penetrating and intense as ever, and I won’t admit to myself that something unwinds in my stomach a little as I meet his gaze.
That I missed it somehow.
“Yeah. Okay.”
He leads me to his car and holds the door open for me again like he did the other night, helping me sit before closing it gently. The engine purrs to life as he starts the ignition, and he pulls out of the parking lot smoothly.
Music fills the car as we drive, and I find my head nodding along to the beat. I don’t recognize all the songs, but I like them. They all seem like surprising choices for Marcus Constantine, although I’m learning slowly not to let myself make assumptions about this man. They’re almost always wrong.
Still, the music is a sharp contrast to the aura he usually projects, which is harsh, dominating, and overwhelming. These songs are haunting. Beautiful. Melancholy.
When we’re about halfway back to my place, he glances over at me. “Sorry you didn’t get what you were after. But I’m glad you’re looking for him.”
“Why?”
“Because I know it’s important to you.”
I clear my throat against the lump that tries to rise up, forcing down the swell of emotions at the honest simplicity in his words. “Yeah. It is. But it’s just a dream. A fantasy.”
He presses a button on the dash, and the music grows a little quieter, allowing us to talk more easily. “No. I don’t think it is. That picture you have is real. Tangible. The boy in it is real. And if he exists, then that means somewhere, somehow, there’s a trail that leads to him.”
Hope.
How can a man who’s so full of secrets and violence also be so fucking full of hope?
I let out a breath, picking at the fake fingernails of the prosthetic silicone hand that rests on my lap. “I really want you to be right. But I can’t find the trail.”
“What have you done?”
There’s no judgement in his voice, no hint that he doesn’t think I’ve done enough. Just thoughtful curiosity.
My brows draw together, and I shift in my seat, turning to face him a little more fully. The last time I saw Marcus was in this very car, almost a week ago. That time, he sat stiff and rigid in the driver’s seat, his jaw set as intense emotions I couldn’t quite decipher poured out of him. Now, he looks utterly relaxed, and there’s something about the way he’s speaking to me that feels different than any interaction we’ve ever had before.
It’s like he’s seeing me as a whole person—a real person. Not just as some object or abstract idea he’s coveted for so long.
“Um, I’ve done a lot. Well, everything I can think of.”
I quickly go through each of the efforts I’ve made to track down my brother, all the way up to the shitty private detective, although I leave out the bit about the hand up my skirt.
Marcus nods along as he listens, his gaze on the road but his focus on me. When I finish, he hums softly in his throat. “Yeah. I admit it’s not a lot to go on. Right now you’re pulling at nothing. But all you need is one good thread to pull on. That’ll get you started. It’ll lead to another, and another, and another.” He glances sideways, catching my gaze. “Maybe I can help.”
My heart stutters in my chest, and my head jerks back slightly in surprise. I don’t know why, but I wasn’t expecting that at all.
I should probably say no. Over and over, as he and his friends have worked their way into my life, I’ve warned myself against giving them any more parts of me. Against handing over the few pieces they don’t already have.
But if he could help… if he could truly help…
I don’t know what else Marcus has going on in his life, what other connections and resources he might have. But I know he has money. And I know money is sometimes all that’s needed to open doors that otherwise stay barred shut.
“Yeah. Maybe,” I murmur.
It’s not quite a yes and it’s not quite a no. It’s leaving the possibility open, which I already know from experience is a dangerous proposition with this man. But I can’t help it.
We drive down the narrow, trash-littered streets of my neighborhood, and I find my gaze inexorably drawn to the man beside me. Marcus’s features are just as striking in profile as they are from the front, with his chiseled jawline, straight nose, and full lips. The bruise on his face from his fight with Greg is almost gone, no more than a small pink mark beneath his cheekbone now.
A few pieces of brown hair fall over his forehead, and I have the strangest impulse to reach up and run my fingers through them, to push them back from his face and delve my hand into the thick, rich strands.
I dig my fingers into my own thigh instead, gripping tightly and trying to ground myself as I wrench my gaze away from his face. I wasn’t being subtle as I stared at him. Truthfully, I don’t think I ever am.
As if he can feel the loss of my gaze—as if he misses it—Marcus shifts his head to glance at me. “I never knew you had a brother.”
“Well, I barely do.” I laugh softly, then hesitate. “I’m a little surprised you didn’t know though, honestly. I mean, you’ve been watching me for so long, I would’ve expected you to know everything about me by now.”
The car rolls to a smooth stop as he parks in front of my apartment. When Marcus turns to face me, I can’t look away. Nothing else seems to exist outside of this car. Outside of the space between us.
“I know a lot.” He speaks simply, making no effort to deny the length and breadth of his stalking. “But I still don’t know what I want to most.”
“What’s that?” I whisper.
“You.” He reaches across the center console and pushes a lock of dark hair out of my face, his fingertips brushing my temple. “What’s in your head. What’s in your heart.”
His hand skates down the side of my face and over my collarbone to rest gently on my upper chest, as if he could pull the knowledge he seeks directly out of my heart through this contact alone.
The traitorous organ jumps under his touch, thudding harder against my ribs. Like it’s trying to reach him. Like it wants him to know.
I shake my head, the movement a little strained. “Trust me,” I joke weakly, the words catching in my throat. “Nobody wants that.”
“I do.”
His hand leaves my chest, wrapping around my wrist instead. He lifts my arm, his thumb brushing over the delicate skin on the inside of my wrist. Then he brings it to his lips and presses a kiss to the small white scar that marks my suicide attempt.
The bruises from the bites he left there have faded, and this kiss feels like the antithesis to every one of them.
This kiss feels like a promise, an echo of what he told me that night at his house.
If he had known me back then, he wouldn’t have let this happen.
Because this man—this dangerous, enigmatic man—will do everything in his power to keep me safe.
I inhale softly, a quick gasp for air.
The gentle press of Marcus’s lips on my wrist sends heat shooting through me. His touch is both comforting and arousing, and it makes me want to crawl over the center console and into his lap, to wrap my arm around him and lose myself in his sharp, addictive scent.
In the warmth and strength of him.
In the burning intensity of his gaze.
It’s a two-way street, I realize. As desperate as he is to get inside my head, I’m equally obsessed with what’s inside his. I’m almost beyond caring why I feel the way I do about him, or whether it’s safe or smart.
Every attempt I’ve made to escape the pull of him has only thrown us back together even more violently than before.
Maybe we really are bound by blood. By the blood I shed that night and the blood that has continued to pump through his veins ever since.
By one hundred million heartbeats.
“If you…” I swallow hard as he glances up at me through his lashes, his lips still brushing the skin of my wrist. Pride and fear make the words thick on my tongue. But I push them out anyway. “If you think you can help me track down my brother, I would… like that.”
The smile that spreads slowly across Marcus’s face makes my heart gallop in my chest. Not because it’s terrifying, but because it’s so fucking beautiful. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile like this, or seen his eyes shine with warmth like this.
“Angel, I would love to.”
He’s looking at me like I’ve given him a gift by allowing him to help me, not the other way around, and I wonder briefly if that’s what Ryland felt like when he bought me groceries the other day. If that’s why he was so irritated by my stubborn refusal to accept his kindness.
The way Marcus is gazing at me is too much, too overwhelming, so I quickly tug my arm back. His grip on my wrist tightens for just a fraction of a second as if he doesn’t want to let go, then he releases me and watches me fumble quickly for the seatbelt clip before I push open the door.
“I’ll see you around,” he says, and I know he means it.
“Yeah.”
The door closes with a soft thud behind me, and I head up the walkway to my apartment, trying to sort through my scrambled thoughts.
I’m not wrong. Something has changed in the dynamic between me and the men who follow me. Whether it was the events of that reckless night outside the bar or my confrontation with Ryland the next day, I’m not sure.
But something is different.
