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He is back.
Perfect timing.
I suck in a tight breath through my teeth and force myself not to jerk too hard against his grip, because that only ever makes it worse.
“Well,” I say, voice rougher than I want it to be, “hello to you too.”
He yanks my head back harder, and I hiss. “Welcome back,” I add. “Did the airport lose your manners?”
Silence.
Well, that’s never good.
I turn my eyes as much as I can without wrenching my neck and catch part of his reflection in the mirror across the room. Immaculate even when furious. “Who pissed you off today?”
His answer is a kick to my stomach.
Air leaves me in one sound as he lets go of my hair and drives his boot in to fold me. I stumble backward, hit the edge of the bed, and go down badly, one knee slamming into the rug before the rest of me follows.
I brace a hand on the floor and look up at him, breathing through my teeth. Then he nudges my shoulder with the toe of his boot.
My jaw tightens.
I know what he wants.
I fucking hate kneeling. My mother used to tell me I was born to stand tall, that one day I’d be a prince. Turns out she was right about the title and catastrophically wrong about everything that came with it.
His foot catches under my shoulder and shoves me harder.
“Fine,” I snap, voice filled with pain and hate. “God, you’re melodramatic.”
I get up onto my knees. The rug presses rough against my skin through my pants. I keep my spine straight and my chin up.
He looks down at me.
Expressionless.
I smile with all my teeth. “You know,” I say, “most brothers just bring souvenirs when coming back home.”
His hand catches my jaw. Not enough to bruise there, because he’s careful about visible things when he wants to be. But hard enough to grind my teeth together.
I search his face, trying to read the particular flavor of this. Business? Suspicion? Did someone say something? Did he see something? Does he know about Kento? I have been reckless even in my own house, maybe Alex saw something and snitched.
No.
If he knew, this would feel different.
This is something else.
He lets go of my jaw just to shove me backward.
I go with it badly, and before I can fully reorient, his boot comes down on my arm.
He likes arms. Always has.
It’s his favorite place to hit when he wants to leave damage where clothing can swallow it whole. Biceps. Forearms. Shoulders if he’s feeling thorough.
I curl instinctively and hate myself for it. He notices, and there is a faint change in his eyes as I try to roll. I think I am imagining things because I see guilt in his gaze as his boot drives into my ribs and pins me half-flat again.
