Page 42

Alcott leans back, folding his arms. “She is not a helpless lamb, Edward.”

“I never said she was!” I shout, my arms raised out in exacerbation.

“You act as though she is made of glass.” He keeps his tone so smooth, so matter-of-fact, while panic claws up my esophagus.

“I act as though men like The Collector break everything they touch, because they do!” My words need to reach him. He needs to understand.

“And you believe staying away from her will prevent that?” Alcott crosses his arms against his chest with his question.

“Yes.” The answer is immediate. Too immediate.

Alcott’s brows lift. “How noble.” He emphasizes the last word, dripping with sarcasm.

“Do not.” I point at him in warning.

“How tragic.” His sarcasm is getting thicker.

“Alcott,” I seethe.

“How utterly idiotic.” Alcott’s words are venomous.

Electricity surges up my spine. He continues, voice silken and cruel, “You truly intend to sit here for the rest of your miserable life, pining over the forbidden fruit, starving yourself beside the tree, and calling it protection?” My brother is speaking to me as if I am an imbecile.

“She is not fruit,” I say.

“She is temptation, then.” Alcott looks down at me from his stool, assessing my every movement, my every expression. My loss of control.

“Stop,” I reply.

“She is color in your otherwise dreadful existence,” he states.

My hands curl into fists, “She is danger!”

“No.” Alcott’s voice hardens. “She is alive and you, brother, seem determined to punish yourself for wanting something that breathes.”

The words strike too close. I turn away. A mistake.

Alcott follows. “You want her so badly it is practically pathetic.”

“Shut up.” I cannot get away from him.

“You think I do not see it? You think I do not notice the way you go still when someone says her name? The way you have avoided luncheon as though the table itself may bite you? The way you stare at nothing and look heartbroken over a woman who would probably poison you for being this melodramatic?” Each and every one of his words forms like a fist, pounding on the punching bag that is my heart.

My restraint fractures. My own fist hits the wall before I realize I have moved, wood splinters beneath my knuckles as pain shoots up my arm. The kitchen falls silent as Alcott peers at the hole, then at me. For once, he does not smile. My breathing is ragged, I hate that. I hate the tremor in my hand and I hate the tears burning behind my eyes. Most of all, I hate that he sees all of it.

“You know why,” I say.

Alcott’s expression changes. “Edward…”

“You know why I stay away,” and with my words, he says nothing.

Good. Let him hear it. Let him stand there with his clever mouth closed for once and hear the truth he keeps trying to carve out of me.

“I could not protect you.” The words leave me quietly.

As Alcott’s face stills.

“When we were children,” I continue, “I tried. Every day, I tried. I put myself between you and them when I could, I lied about your age. I hid you when I could and I took what I could take from every stranger.”