Cousin Adrian had to be carted out on a spare stretcher after someone pointed out that he hadn’t moved in a while.
He wasn’t dead. But it took a few tries to rouse him.
In the end, Jeffery took pity on him.
Cleaned him up and stitched him closed. But the kitchen had been left in a state of red, the stark contrast impossible to miss against the white tiles. As I emerge for dinner the next evening, Jeffery is still scrubbing.
“Hey, Jeff,” I call.
He nods in acknowledgment, but does not look up from his work.
“Leave your father alone,” Mother snaps. “He is busy cleaning up Adrian’s mess.”
Jeffery looks at me then, more tired than usual, and I take up a spare rag, wiping down the table as Jeffery finishes with the floor.
“Ugh,” Vanessa groans as she settles in one of the stools tucked under the island. “That’s disgusting.”
“You’re such a whimp,” I mutter.
“Both of you, be quiet,” Mother directs. “And Elliot, get off the floor.”
Vanessa sticks her tongue out at me, and I shrug apologetically at Jeffery as I abandon him to join them at the counter.
“Eat something,” Mother says, waving a hand at the crude display of food.
She used to make a big show of it when we were younger. Try to dress it up as something fun. A feast before famine, I guess.
But she got tired of pretending once we were old enough. Now it’s just a mountain of meat, raw and bleeding across the counter.
I eat what I can. If only so there’s something in my stomach when the vomiting starts. Anything more than that will just wear me down.
“How is school?” she asks as she takes a chunk out of a finely marbled filet.
“Fine. Although it won’t be if I keep missing classes.”
Her eyes roll.
“Please, Elliot. What exactly would you have me do? Allow you to run rampant across campus? You know how that will end.”
“Dame thinks he can handle it. And I have my dampener. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
Mother scoffs.
“Damien Broussard is naive,” she says. “Like his father.”
It’s bold of me to even mention the Broussard name in this house. Mother never quite rid herself of her ire when she lost her challenge for alpha. I think she was holding out hope that I might achieve what she never had. She’s never said as much, but she doesn’t really need to. I can feel it. Like the undercurrent to every conversation, every goal, every correction, every praise.
An alpha is what she wants. But I refuse to be the one to give it to her.
“You will return to this house for the moon as you always have,” Mother snaps. “End of discussion.”
We eat in relative silence until Mother excuses herself, at which point Vanessa turns on me.
“Why would you bring up, Dame?” she snaps. “Now she’s going to be pissed off all week.”
I shrug.
“That’s not my problem.”
