Panting, I drag Mathew back by his legs, narrowly avoiding another kick.
I turn with the knife held tightly in my hand as another slice of pain shoots up my side. I ignore the metallic smell of blood and the steady drip on the floor beneath me and advance on my twin.
Mathew shoves his hair from his eyes. He shifts, so his back is pressed against the bookcase, and his expression turns blank.
I press the knife against his neck and bare my teeth. “You’re a disgrace to the Payne name. There’s no honor in bringing a knife to a fistfight.”
“Honor will only get you so far.”
I dig the knife in harder, and Mathew winces, some of his bravado melting away. “And what would you do, brother? If you were in my shoes.”
I don’t need one more problem to deal with, especially not from my twin.
But I can’t deny the thrill of having the upper hand, and the anticipation of knowing all it would take is one move.
One slice, and I can remove Mathew from the board.
Your father would eventually get over it, especially when he finds out what Mathew’s done. It’s not the best way to solve your problems, but it would be effective.
Mathew’s breathing deepens. “This only ends one way. You and I both know it.”
I stare at Mathew for a while longer, the knife growing heavier in my hand.
After a long pause, I tuck it away and release my brother. I take a few steps back and clear my throat. “You aren’t worth it.”
Taking care of Mathew won’t change the fact that when push came to shove, Oliver was the one to betray me.
And it won’t take care of my Everett and Fitzpatrick problem.
With one last look in my twin’s direction, I walk away.
I wander the empty hallways of the manor, pausing every so often to listen for Mathew’s taunts and jeers. When I don’t hearhim, I circle back to the study and find it empty. I finish half the whiskey bottle before Katia comes to find me. She takes one look at the hand pressed against my side and says nothing. When she returns with a first-aid kit, I scowl. In silence, she presses the flesh together and begins to stitch.
I press my lips together and ignore the burning sensation.
As soon as she’s done, she stands up and leaves the room.
Gingerly, I climb up to the bedroom and find London fast asleep with her hair fanned out behind her.
She murmurs and reaches for me in her sleep.
I inch away from her, peel my shirt over my head, and leave it in a heap on the floor.
In the bathroom, when I close my eyes, I see Oliver’s face on the receiving end of my punches. I feel sick when I glance down at the wound and see the ugly shade of red. After cleaning it with some disinfectant, I splash water on my face and exhale.
London is in the same position when I pad back into the room.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at an unmarked spot on the wall.
In the morning, when I open my eyes, London is propped up on her elbows and looking at me through hooded lashes. My tongue feels heavy and awkward as I lean over to give her a quick peck. She wrinkles her nose, and her gaze follows me as I throw the cover off and stroll to the bathroom.
After splashing my face with cold water, I look up to see London in the doorway, her face knitted in concern. “I waited up for you last night.”
I reach for the towel and pat my face dry. “I had things to do.”
London sighs. “I wish I could help.”
I let my clothes fall into a heap and turn on the water in the shower. “You’re already helping.”
