Chapter 18
SPIRALING
LUCIAN
I’ve killed men for less than what I’m feeling now.
The fucker put his hands on her.
Since she left me, I’ve been restless, hollow.
I watch as her shadow moves inside the shelter. I see her at home. Lights on late. I follow her and see the exhausted curve of her spine. I can’t hear her voice anymore—Logan, the fucker, deactivated the devices I left in the shelter.
So, I only get the shape of her. That should be enough. It’s safer this way. But it’s not. It’s killing me.
She won’t look at the window anymore. Won’t look toward the street. But she knows I’m there. And she’s choosing not to care.
I can’t blame her. Hell, I wouldn’t forgive myself, either.
I left the country for two days, told Logan to watch her. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t have a choice. And he’s talking to her, touching her. I fucking hate it.
An hour later, I charge Logan in Gideon’s office. “You son of a bitch!”
I chased after the asshole, knowing where he’d be.
Gideon groans. “Not in my office.”
“He had his hands on her,” I shout.
“She was crying.”
I grab my younger brother by the collar. “You made her cry?”
Logan turns to look at Gideon. “He’s lost it.”
“You shouldn’t have put your hands on her.” I slam him against a wall.
“I didn’t know you were back from Palermo.”
I slam a fist into his stomach.
“Take this to the gym,” Gideon orders.
I’m past caring.
“Why were you there?”
Logan growls as he straightens. “That hurt, you motherfucker.”
“Why were you there?” I repeat, louder this time.
“To tell her you love her.”
I punch him again.
“I have a meeting in five minutes in my office,” Gideon states.
He’s giving us a time limit. He did that while we were growing up, too. We could brawl for a set amount of time, and then we had to get our acts together.
“You had no right to talk to her.”
“She had every right to the truth,” Logan insists.
“You don’t know what this is—”
“I know what it isn’t,” he cuts me off. “You love her.”
I swing again. This time, Logan pushes me back, snarls, and comes at me. We collide like we’re thirteen—no rules, no strategy, just fists and fury and the kind of bone-deep understanding that only brothers have.
He gets a shot to my ribs. Hard. Makes me grunt and stagger a step.
I retaliate with a brutal hook to his jaw, snapping his head sideways.
He spits blood, grins like a lunatic, and drives a shoulder into my gut, knocking the wind out of me.
We hit the ground, a tangle of fists and knees, cursing each other, not holding back.
He lands a punch that splits my lip. I catch him in the ribs, probably cracking one.
Neither of us cares.
It’s not about hurting each other. It’s about bleeding enough to get the poison out.
“Time’s up,” Gideon announces.
We both stop, breaking apart. We’re both bleeding, both breathing hard. My jaw aches. His nose might be broken—it’s bent slightly wrong, and dripping blood down onto his mouth.
Logan wipes the blood from his face with the back of his hand, and snorts a rough laugh. “Feel better?” he rasps.
“Fuck you,” I mutter, but it comes out half a laugh, too.
“Now get the fuck out of my office,” Gideon commands.
We do.
We clean up the best we can in my office, then we go to the rooftop. We sit on a frozen ledge like idiots. The icy air bites at our skin, and steam rises off our battered bodies.
Logan hands me a flask of booze. I drink. The whiskey burns down my throat like absolution.
He drinks.
I don’t apologize. I don’t need to. Some things between brothers are said with fists, not words.
“I love her. I think I’ve always loved her. Even before I knew her.”
“Fuck, that’s deep.” His voice is muffled because he’s got a tampon up his nose; we got it from a bathroom.
“She deserves better.”
“Maybe.” Logan tentatively touches the back of his head, where he probably has a knot from when I slammed him into the wall. “But she doesn’t want better. She wants you. The man she loves. The man who loves her.”
I stare at the skyline, throat raw.
“I’m not one of the good guys.”
“None of us are,” he mutters. “But if you don’t try, then you’re just a dickhead with good cheekbones.”
I laugh at that and then wince because my split lip hurts.
Logan claps a hand on my shoulder—hard, a brother’s support in the form of bruises. “Get your head out of your ass, Lucian, and go get your woman.”
“I can’t,” I whisper.
Logan sighs. “I know.”