I can only shake my head. “I’m gonna make you wash your mouth out with soap. Or that queso. Hard to say which is the more serious threat.”
“Don’t threatenmewith a good time,” my brother says gleefully as he licks a droplet of cheese off his thumb.
“If you get cheese grease on my leather seats, I’ll gut you like a fish,” I warn him.
I throw the car in park as we arrive at his physical therapist’s office. I’m not even three full syllables into saying “Do you need—”before Sage is shaking his head.
“If you offer to help me, I’ll gutyoulike a fish,” he fires at me.
I raise up my hands in self-defense. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But goddamn, it fucking kills me to watch him move. It’s a strange thing to watch someone you love struggle, especially when those struggles are your doing.
Your fault, your faultis the constant refrain in my head.Everything that’s happened to him is your fault.
I don’t want to baby him. He’s a man in the making and he deserves to carve his own path through life, proud and independent. That’s the fucked-up conundrum of it all, though: By definition, you can’thelpsomeone be independent.
You can only stand by and watch, and offer a hand if they fall.
“I’m gonna come in,” I decide. “Don’t worry—I won’t make a scene or blow up your flirting with the cute assistant. I just haven’t shown my face in a while, and I want to check in on things.”
Sage wants to argue, I can tell, but after he gets settled into his chair outside the car, he simply shrugs. “Fine. Suit yourself. But I’m gonna pretend like I have no idea who the hell you are.”
“I’d expect no less from you,” I mutter. “Brotherly love is alive and well today.”
I follow Sage into the clinic. The PT assistant Sage has a crush on, a little blond thing named Lilah, lights up when she sees us.
“Sage! What’s up?” Her eyes pivot to me and she gulps. “And— oh, Mr. Hale. We weren’t expecting you today.”
“Thought I’d check in,” I tell her. “See how the kid’s doing.”
“He’s doing great,” she assures me. “Really pushing himself lately.”
Sage flexes his biceps and grins like a fool. My heart breaks with how much I love that idiot brother of mine.
“That’s good to hear,” I say. “Don’t let me keep you guys—go ahead, do your thing.”
I take a seat in the waiting room as Lilah and Sage go into the main workout area. Through the glass partition, I watch them get started.
His PT, a former college wrestler named Bishop with quads the size of Sage’s waist, is setting up equipment for their session. He gives me a respectful nod when he sees me watching.
Then they get to it. It gets brutal quickly. Bishop has Sage doing resistance training with bands, working the muscles in his core and upper body. Sweat beads on Sage’s forehead within minutes. His arms tremble and his jaw clenches with effort as he pulls and pushes against the tension.
“Come on, Sage,” Bishop encourages. “Five more, chief. You’ve got this.”
Sage grunts through the last reps, his face flushed red.
Pride swells in my chest. He’s so fucking strong. Stronger than I ever was at his age. Stronger than I am now, probably.
But the pride is immediately followed by the familiar wave of guilt.
I remember when he was a baby—so small I could hold him in one hand. I’d been basically a damn kid myself when our mother died giving birth to him. Aleksei brought that bundle to my doorstep, and suddenly, I had this tiny, helpless thing depending on me for everything.
I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. Still don’t, most days.
But I looked at that baby and I made a promise: I would give him a better life than the one we’d had. No Bratva. No violence. No looking over his shoulder every second, wondering when the past would catch up.
Now, he’s sixteen, on the cusp of manhood, and I wonder what his future will look like. Will he go to college? Fall in love?
