"I'm not trying to score points." I lean back, putting distance between us even though there's nowhere to go. My spine presses against the stair edge.
"Then what are you doing?"
"Waiting for my mom." Each word comes out clipped. Hard.
He laughs. Low and rough, the sound scraping against my nerves. "Right. Well, enjoy your reunion, little brother. I'll be upstairs if you need me."
He turns and walks away, and I sit there, fists clenched, trying not to let his words burrow under my skin.
Suck-up.
Routine.
Good boy act.
Fuck him. Fuck him and his smirk and his tattoos and the way he looks at me like he can see right through me.
Margot and Richard arrive twenty minutes later. I hear the car before I see it—tires on gravel, engine cutting off, car doors opening and closing.
The front door opens, and I'm on my feet before I can think about it. Muscle memory. Need. The desperate pull of someone who's been drowning and just spotted land.
"Max!" Margot's face lights up, her whole expression transforming from tired to joyful in an instant, and she drops her suitcase to pull me into a hug.
I hold on tighter than I should. My arms wrap around her, squeezing, burying my face in her shoulder like I'm five years old and not twenty. She smells like her perfume and airplane recycled air and home.
"Hey," I say into her shoulder. "How was Italy?"
"Amazing. Exhausting. I missed you." She pulls back and cups my face, studying me. Her eyes search mine—looking for cracks, for breaks, for anything wrong. "You okay? How was your first night here?"
"Fine. It was fine."
"Liar." She says it soft. Knowing. With a small smile that's equal parts sad and amused.
I smile despite myself.
Richard clears his throat. A pointed sound. A reminder that he's here too. "Max. Good to see you."
"You too. Welcome home." I step back from Margot, creating space. Being polite.
He claps me on the shoulder—gentle, paternal—his hand heavy and warm, the grip measured, and I manage not to flinch this time.
Progress.
"Boys!" Richard calls up the stairs. His voice booms, echoing off the high ceilings. "We're home!"
Footsteps. Voices.
Atlas appears first, dressed down in dark jeans and a gray t-shirt, looking composed and controlled as always. His silver-streaked hair catches the light from the chandelier. Gleaming. Sharp. Perfect. He moves like someone used to command—smooth, confident, deliberate.
Bane follows. I barely got a good look at him at the wedding, but now I can see him clearly. Six-two, athletic build like he spends serious time in the gym. Broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist. Arms that strain against his sleeves. The kind of body that comes from dedication and discipline and probably a personal trainer. Golden-brown hair that's styled perfectly, warm hazel eyes that aren't warm at all right now. Cold. Assessing. Looking at me like I'm something unpleasant he found on his shoe. He's wearing expensive casual—designer jeans, a fitted navy henley that shows off his build. Classically handsome in that all-American way. The kind of face that gets what it wants.
He looks like Richard. Same bone structure. Same easy confidence that comes from never being told no. Same way of standing like he owns the ground he's on. Like the world exists to serve him.
Zero's last, taking his time, hands in his pockets like he can't be bothered. That same smirk on his face.
He looks at me from across the foyer, and I look away. Focus on Margot. On Richard. On anything else.
"Dad," Atlas says, shaking Richard's hand. "How was the trip?"
