I walk straight to the table, stopping next to Dove. Up close that familar scent of vanilla and rain hits me. It is more potent than the whiskey I usually drink to get through these holidays.
“You realize you’re going down, right?” I murmur, leaning down so my voice is just for her.
Dove shivers, a subtle reaction that shoots a bolt of satisfaction straight to my chest. She looks up at me, biting her lip, and her eyes dancing with a challenge that I haven’t seen in years. “Big talk for a guy wearing a three-piece suit. Are you sure you have the range of motion for this?”
“Watch and learn, teacher.”
I look across the table. My father, Henry, is watching us with a small, smug smile playing on his lips. Beside him, my mother hums to herself, tying a bow on a basket with a flourish that screamsI told you so.
Great. The peanut gallery is active.
The game is simple, stupid, and surprisingly cutthroat. You roll a hard-boiled egg across the table. If you knock a Peep off the edge, you get a point. If your egg falls off, you’re out. There’s also a single pink peep on the table representing each player. If you knock that peep off, then you steal a point from that player.
Theo goes first, putting too much muscle into it. His egg rockets across the table, misses every single Peep, and flies off the edge, cracking against the plastic-covered floor.
“You have the finesse of a sledgehammer,” Cordia sighs, stepping up. She carefully rolls her egg, knocking a pink bunny sideways but not off the ledge.
Then, it’s Dove’s turn.
She leans over the table, her tongue poking out between her lips in concentration. The position pulls the fabric of her dress tight across her waist. I force my eyes to stay on the table, my hands clenching in my pockets.
She flicks her wrist. The egg spins, curving perfectly around Cordia’s obstacle, and slams into a yellow chick, sending it tumbling to the floor.
“Yes!” Dove cheers, jumping up and down. She spins around, and in her excitement, grabs my forearm. “Did you see that? Direct hit!”
Her touch burns through the wool of my jacket. It’s electric, immediate, and terrifying. I look down at her small, paint-stained hand gripping my arm. My own hands are twice the size of hers. My knuckles are still scarred from where I split them on that jerk’s jawbone for her.
I look up and catch Cordia’s eye. My sister is grinning, brows raised so high that I want to throw an egg at her.
Behind me, I hear a sharp exhale. Emily is watching us, her arms crossed, her foot tapping a frantic rhythm against the floor. She looks worried now. Good, as she should be.
I am all jagged edges and violent impulses. Dove is soft smiles and construction paper butterflies.
I should pull away. I should go stand by Emily and talk about interest rates.
Instead, I cover Dove’s hand with mine.
“Good shot,” I say, my voice rougher than intended.
The laughter dies in her throat. Her eyes lock onto mine, wide and searching. For a second, the room disappears. Theo’s shouting, the neon marshmallows, the plastic sheet—it all fades. There is only the heat of her skin and the desperate, clawing need in my chest to pull her closer.
“Your turn,” she whispers, breathless.
Reluctantly, I step away to stand at the front of the table. I pick up an egg. It feels fragile in my palm. Everything around Dove feels fragile, including my restraint.
I don’t aim. Don’t strategize. I just roll the damn thing. It plows through the center of the table, taking out two Peeps in a violent collision that sends sugar shrapnel flying.
“Hell yeah!” Theo yells. “That’s my brother!”
“Show off,” Dove teases, nudging my shoulder with hers.
The contact is light, playful, but it makes my teeth ache. I want to wrap my hand around the back of her neck and keep her there. I want to ruin the lipstick she applied so carefully. It’s not justdesire. It’s possession. If I start with Dove, I won’t let her have a life outside of me. I’ll suffocate her with this need to keep her close, to keep her safe. She’s a free spirit, a teacher, a light. I’m a vault that locks things away.
So I can’t.
I glance at my hands again. They are weapons. I use them to dismantle businesses and, when necessary, other men. I have a violence inside me I keep on a tight leash, a darkness that I’ve learned to hide behind expensive suits and silence.
I’m a wolf sitting at a table of rabbits, pretending I don’t want to eat them whole. I’m lost in the moment with Dove as I play with her and my siblings.
