Dylan (Inked Brotherhood 4)

Her pretty mouth flattens, and she turns away to put away the pan. “I’m not sure why.”

Fair enough. “I’m glad you’re here,” I say softly, not sure she hears me.

Later, Miles drinks his hot chocolate, smiling at Tessa when she strokes his hair, and then I take him to bed.

“She’s pretty,” he tells me as I tuck him under the covers.

“Yeah,” I say, unable to deny it. “Now sleep.”

“Will she keep coming after Teo is fine?”

“We’ll see,” I say. I wish I knew. Probably not. “Night, Miles.”

Taking a bracing breath, I return to the kitchen, stall outside the door. Teo was a baby when Mom left. Miles was two. He doesn’t remember her really, can’t even recall her face. He didn’t feel the crushing pain and despair I did. The sense of abandonment. The anger and unbearable sadness.

I was fourteen. I felt everything. I went to bed every night unable to sleep, wondering if she ever loved us at all, if it was all a lie. If it was because I wasn’t clever enough, good enough—for her, for anyone. I mean, if my own mother left me, why would anyone else stay?

I watched Dad struggle with the same questions, with the same anguish and distress. I saw what it did to him, how it broke him and drew him under. I swore to myself this would never happen again, would never happen to me.

And if that’s a little like choosing death, so life won’t hu

rt you, then so be it. The deed is done, and it’s too late to go back.

***

Tessa is standing by the kitchen window, looking out into the darkness. I see her ghostly reflection in the glass. A fairy princess caught in a broken mirror.

There you go again, man. Fucking stop it.

I close and lock the door behind me. If she wants to tell me anything nasty—not that I’d blame her—I don’t want my brothers to walk in when it happens. Experience has taught me that locking doors is a good thing in a house with younger siblings.

“Hey, Tess. Listen, uh…” I rub my eyes. “Thanks for helping out with Miles. And for cooking. I know I’ve been an asshole, and I’m sorry. Sorry for Sunday. It won’t happen again.”

She doesn’t turn around, and I go to lean on the wall by the window, mentally bracing for whatever she has to throw at me.

“Sorry,” she finally says. “You’re sorry.”

I can’t read her tone. It’s neutral. Tired. Sad. It makes me wanna punch something.

“Aren’t you?” I thought she hated me for it.

She ducks her head. “It felt good.”

At her admission, the air leaves my lungs, and a fire is lit behind my balls. Memories of my brief time with her flood me, and suddenly I’m so hard it’s a miracle my fly doesn’t burst open to let my swelling dick pop out like a jack-in-the-box.

Shit. I turn away and bite my lip to muffle a groan as I reach down in my now too-tight jeans to accommodate my hard-on.

“Look, I know it meant nothing to you. I get it.” She’s right behind me now, and my breath catches when she trails a hand down my back. “I’m not expecting anything.”

But maybe I want her to expect more from me.

I hit the wall with my palm. I want to punch it until my knuckles bleed.

“Dylan, are you okay?” Her hand travels up to my shoulder, warm, almost weightless, and yet I feel it all the way to my throbbing cock.

I can’t. Can’t fight it anymore.

Turning around, I grab her and pull her to me. A startled yelp leaves her mouth, and I cover it with mine.