I hadn’t seen my brother enter the gym. Brushing the back of my arm over my forehead, I smeared sweat across my skin, salt stinging where it met the cuts on my knuckles. “Shut the fuck up. I’m not in the mood.”
“Clearly,” he said, a snarky smirk curling on his lips. “You want to talk about it, or is this something we should save for our therapist?”
I snorted under my breath. We didn’t have a therapist, but we probably should have. Years of trauma, violence, and family dysfunction lived heavily inside the walls of this house. More outside. “Does it look like I want to talk?” I asked, driving another punch into the bag.
“Fine,” he said easily, dropping onto a nearby bench. “I’ll do the talking.”
I stepped back from the bag, my arms burning and muscles screaming as I grabbed a towel from where I’d tossed it earlier and threw it over my shoulder, moving toward the bench press. “It’s what you’re good at,” I muttered, dropping onto the other padded bench and reaching for the bar overhead.
Mason scoffed. “One of us needs to be able to talk us out of sticky situations. You just punch your way through them.”
I rolled my eyes, positioning myself under the bar, hands gripping the cold metal. “It’s quicker and more effective.”
“So what do you know about this mysterious dinner?” Mason shifted, elbows bracing on his knees.
“Did you tell Kreed and Raine?” I pushed the bar up, lowering it again in controlled reps.
“Yeah. They weren’t exactly jumping for joy.”
Were any of us thrilled about it? If anything, with Kreed and Raine being at college now, I’d hoped mandatory family dinners were a thing of the past. Even with Kaylor there to soften the strain, her presence a buffer between us and the worst of our father’s moods, being in the same room as Donovan Corvo was tense.
Whatever he had planned for Sunday, it wouldn’t be good.
“Do you think it has something to do with Silvia picking up what Rusty started?” I asked between reps, my voice slightly strained from exertion. “The trafficking operation?”
“Who knows?” Mason shrugged, one shoulder lifting and falling in that careless way he had. Scratching at the stubble on his jaw, his five o’clock shadow darker than usual. “Didn’t seem high on his list earlier when I talked to him, but maybe something changed. Maybe it’s escalating faster than we thought. Has Kreed or Raine said anything to you?”
I shook my head, lowering the bar again. “Not to me, but they wouldn’t be the only ones keeping shit from me.”
“What’s your deal? Something happened tonight?” His eyes narrowed. “Something more than just Dad being Dad?”
I said nothing, keeping my focus on the bar—big mistake. Silence was admission with Mason. He could read me better than anyone.
“Did you have a fight with Freckles?” he pressed, using that stupid nickname and irking me. “Is that what’s got you in such a pissy mood? Or is it Kaylor, because I swear, if you’re still hung up on?—”
“It’s not Kaylor,” I growled, racking the bar with a huff, the metal clanging against the supports.
“Okay,” he said slowly, drawing the word out. “So…Mallory then.”
I sat up. “I’m surprised you remembered her name.”
“At least we narrowed down the who.” I heard the smirk in his voice without looking.
“Drop it,” I warned, annoyed that her face flashed through my mind. She was the last person I wanted to think about.
“Or what?” he challenged, and when I glanced over, he was grinning. “You gonna hit me instead of the bag?”
I glared at him, letting him see every bit of irritation, frustration, and rage flowing through me. “Not unless you want me to bloody that pretty face you love so much.”
His smirk didn’t fade. If anything, it widened. “Damn. She really got to you. I knew there was something between you and that girl.”
I stood, grabbing a water bottle from the floor and twisting the cap off. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He studied me for a second before snapping his fingers. “Holy. Shit. You like her.”
I scoffed. It was forced and unconvincing even to my own ears. “You couldn’t be more wrong.”
“Which means I’m right,” he said, pushing off the bench.
