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I lift him off my lap, giving him time to find his feet, and stand up myself.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a small handful of candy. Lollipops. A chocolate bar. A few wrapped caramels. I press them into his palm and close his fingers around them.
“Eat these,” I say.
He looks down at the sweets, then up at me, confusion replacing some of the anxiety. “Why do you always—”
“Because you need them.”
At the door, I pause and look back.
He’s standing in the middle of the room, candy clutched in one hand, the other touching his lips like he’s trying to hold onto the kiss.
“Try to stay out of trouble, prince.”
Then I let myself out, closing the door behind me, wondering what he’s so afraid of, and who I’m going to have to hurt to make it stop.
Ilya
The door opens again before I’ve even caught my breath, and my entire body fucking freezes. For one ridiculous second, I’m convinced Kento came back, and worse, I actually feel hopeful, but then reality slaps me across the face. Right. The universe is a vindictive bitch with a personal investment in keeping me miserable.
I see my brother. And everything inside me drops. It’s automatic. One look at him, and every part of me is already bracing for whatever comes next.
It’s 5 p.m., which is usually the time he comes into my room, mostly because Alya and my father aren’t home at this hour.
His eyes sweep over the room. I already changed the sheets, so there’s no blood left. “Alex told me Kento Kurosaki was here.”
I sit up too quickly and force my face into something flatter than what I feel. “Servants talk too much.” They fucking do. Those assholes report practically everything I do back to Anton, mostly because he slips them extra money Father doesn’t know about. Apparently loyalty is just a fucking pricing issue in this house. Alex is the worst of them. That bastard doesn’t even need the incentive. He’s practically my brother’s fucking house pet.
“Why was he here?”
I shrug, and his jaw tightens. “I asked you a question.”
“I heard you.”
“Then answer it.”
I tear my eyes away from him, scrambling to get my shit together before he notices just how shaken I am. When I look back, I’ve managed to find some bite. “He came uninvited.”
That part, at least, is true.
He takes another step into the room. “And you let him stay.”
I lift my chin. “What did you want me to do? Shoot him in the hallway? That would’ve been awkward to explain afterward. ‘Sorry, Father, I murdered our potential alliance because he walked upstairs.’ Very diplomatic.”
He doesn’t appreciate my humor.
Tragic, because I’m actually very funny. A gift, really. Wasted on this household.
His hand clamps around my arm before I can get away. Pain bites me, and I grit my teeth to keep from screaming. I’d rather chew through my own tongue than give him the satisfaction of hearing me. If he’s waiting for me to react, he can wait until fucking Christmas.
“You’re getting careless.”
“I’d say it runs in the family.”
“Don’t be clever with me tonight.”
Too late for that, I guess. I try to twist my arm free, but he tightens his grip just enough to shut the attempt down, and the pressure sends a bright ache up to my shoulder.
