That was what Micah would say anyway, usually while he was using Shiloh for target practice or forcing him to endure endless hours of reality television—his brother’s one bizarre vice. He called it stress relief. Shiloh called it torture. Sometimes, it was more painful than being hit in the ribs with a baseball. Or ten.
Micah had little respect for the others in his crew, but that was still more than he had for Shiloh. He used to take it personally, had spent nights wondering why his own brother hated him so much, had even cried about it when he was little. It wasn’t until Malachi reminded Shiloh that Micah didn’t hate them that he stopped trying to make Micah love him. He couldn’t love them. Micah couldn’tanythingthem. To him, they weren’t even people. They were things, pawns, objects to move around, human dolls. Micah wasn’t capable of love or hatred. He was a true predator. That Mal and Shiloh were his favorite prey was nothing more than an accident of birth.
Micah’s chair scraped back from the table, and a shock of fear arced through Shiloh, his heartbeat accelerating to a dangerous level. He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose. He didn’t want Micah to think he was sighing at him.
That would be…bad.
Besides, his mouth was already painfully dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. His body ached from holding the same rigid posture. He needed to relax. It hurt more when he tensed up. But he could never seem to relay that information to whatever part of his brain controlled these things.
So, instead, he quietly sent up a prayer that Micah would stick to his body this time. He really didn’t want to get hit in the face again; his nose was already throbbing and he honestly wasn’t sure what would happen if he got another concussion.
His brother’s footsteps ambled slowly—lazily—towards him, and Shiloh’s apprehension built with each step that echoed off the tile floor. It felt like his insides were shaking. Was that even possible?
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
He sensed his brother standing before him but still didn’t open his eyes. If he did, he might be tempted to start begging and Micah had no tolerance for begging.
So, he kept his eyes tightly shut, ignoring the goosebumps erupting along his whole body as the air conditioning blasted against his sweaty skin.
He flinched as Micah’s hand cupped his cheek. “What am I going to do with you? Hmm?” he asked, voice deceptively fond. Shiloh knew better than to answer. It was a trap. It was always a trap. His stomach felt slippery as Micah traced a finger along his cheek. “Look at me, baby brother.”
“Look at me. Talk to me.”
That was what he’d said. Levi. At least, Shiloh thought that was his name. It was what was stitched on the pocket of the shirt he’d worn unbuttoned over a black tank top that showed off so much skin. Levi was a good name. A kind name.
Or maybe Shiloh just hoped he was kind.
At first glance, he’d looked like a bad guy, no different than the creeps sitting around the table or the ones beating the shit out of Mal in prison. It wasn’t his tattoos, though there’d been so many—toomany to take in. Some on his neck, others on his fingers, several on just the small bit of his chest that had been visible to Shiloh.
He’d also had numerous piercings. One in each brow, several in each ear. But none of that had caused Shiloh to think Levi might be as bad as Micah claimed. No, it had been his expression. Broody, guarded, full lips in a perpetual pout, dark hair parted down the middle and falling into those huge dark eyes. He also had two beauty marks, one on his right cheek and another just under the inner corner of his right eye.
Yeah, he’d looked…not scary but certainly unapproachable. And that was before he’d known Shiloh was there to kill him. But despite his appearance, he’d talked to Shiloh with a soft voice. He’d studied him with more patience than he deserved. And that was when Shiloh had realized Levi wasn’t mean, he was guarded, his mouth in a constant perma-frown like the world was always disappointing him.
Shiloh knew all about that. Maybe that was why kissing Levi had felt like home. His lips were still a little swollen, and if he thought about it hard enough, he could almost feel Levi’s mouth on his. He fought the urge to touch his lips.
Levi had kissed him. He’d just grabbed him by the shirt and kissed him, like he couldn’t help himself, like he’d wanted his lips on Shiloh’s more than he’d wanted to live.
And Shiloh had kissed back. He couldn’t stop himself from reciprocating and hadn’t really wanted to. Levi had kissed him and Shiloh’s brain had gone blissfully silent, leaving behind only sensation. Levi’s fingers on his jaw, his tongue sliding over Shiloh’s. He’d tasted like candy but he’d smelled like something spicy, something masculine and warm and safe.
Shiloh had wanted to keep kissing him and would have probably let him do anything he wanted to him without hesitation. But he knew, deep down, someone like Levi would never look at someone like Shiloh. He was too weak, too feminine, too childish. He’d probably kissed Shiloh just for achance to disarm him. And it worked. So good for Levi. He’d played him.
Something twisted deep inside Shiloh. Life wasn’t a movie. People like Shiloh didn’t get to be happy. That was just the way the world worked. Micah said there were the haves and the have nots and Shiloh was destined to be a have not because he was too meek to take what he wanted.
Shiloh didn’t understand why he had to take anything. Wasn’t there enough to go around? Why did Shiloh’s happiness have to come from someone else’s downfall? It didn’t make any sense. And now, Mal wasn’t even there to talk him through his confusion.
Shiloh realized he’d gotten lost in his thoughts when Micah ground out, “Look. At. Me.”
Shiloh raised his head reluctantly, staring up into pool-blue eyes. It was almost unimaginably barbaric that someone as evil as Micah had been given such an angelic face. And when he smiled, like he was now, it was hard to see what a depraved fucking monster he was. Nobody ever saw him coming until it was too late.
“I just don’t get it,” he crooned. “It’s almost like youwantme to hurt you. Is that it? Have you grown to like the pain, baby brother? Or maybe this is just attention seeking. Hmm?” He arched a brow. “Am I not giving you enough…attention?”
Shiloh fought the bile rising in his throat. If he puked on Micah, he would most definitely kill him. But if Micah hit him in the stomach, he was most definitely going to throw up. And he didn’t want a repeat of last time. He couldn’t even bear to think about what Micah had made him do for punishment.
All he could do was apologize and hope Micah went easy on him. Shiloh could handle almost any punishment. The belt, his fists, even the stick. Anything but the roof.
“I’m really sorry,” Shiloh said, voice barely above a whisper. “I am. I-I don’t like disappointing you. I swear. I just…I tried. But he took the gun from me.” It was a lie, a blatant one, but he hoped Levi would forgive him for casting him as the bad guy just once if it meant a lesser punishment. “I was afraid he was going to shoot me or call the cops. So, I ran.”
Micah shrugged. “Of course, you did. That’s what I get for thinking you were capable of one simple task. It’s like you hate me or something.”
