Stealing Her (Covet 1)

I almost corrected him.

In fact, I stared at him a solid minute, unable to form a coherent thought. Did he think we were still together? Did he forget about the conversation yesterday? I wasn’t sure if it was a mind game or if he really meant it, because for the first time in years he actually sounded sincere about loving me, about wanting to spend time with me. It was like watering an almost dead flower, that’s how desperate I was for the words, for them to have meaning behind them.

He stumbled toward our bedroom, and I rolled my eyes a bit. He’d always been so stubborn; he was going to be one of those patients, wasn’t he? It wouldn’t surprise me at all if he left against doctor’s orders.

I let out a sigh, waited for him to trip on a piece of furniture, then finally moved after him to help carry his weight in the right direction, only the guy looked confused on which way to go, left or right.

“I, uh . . .” He winced. “My head hurts really bad, the concussion is making my memory fuzzy, I may need . . . help until I can remember everything before the accident.”

“You?” I repeated. “Help?”

“Me. Help.” He smirked, or it looked like he smirked. “Is that so hard to believe? I nearly died, Izzy.”

“You haven’t called me Izzy since we were in college,” I croaked, hating how much the endearment made my heart ache. It wasn’t just the way he said it, it was the way he looked at me when he said it.

“Huh.” He grunted like he couldn’t remember. Typical, I knew his games well. He needed help and was trying to get some empathy.

I was torn between wanting to trip him and having some human decency. I chose decency and helped him into the master bedroom and then into bed. “Sleep.”

“Wait.” He grabbed my wrist and held tight. Panic overtook as I waited for him to hurt me, not physically, just emotionally. “I said I needed help.”

“You have a staff to help you,” I said slowly. “Trust me, they’re very . . . helpful.”

His good eye narrowed in on me. “I’m not asking them. I’m asking you.”

“As demanding as ever,” I said dryly.

“Please?”

It was the please that did it, and I sighed reluctantly. “Fine, what do you need?”

“A bath.”

I should have let him face-plant into the glass table. “Sure . . . fine.” I hated myself in that moment, hated that I was weak, that all it took was for him to say please and I was jumping in headfirst with that stupid little word floating around in my brain.

Hope.

Chapter Seven

BRIDGE

She was stunning.

Absolutely breathtaking in a way that made no sense to me. Because how in the hell had my brother landed a woman like that? Rationally, I knew my brother was good-looking. I was given that reminder every day of my life when I looked in the mirror and debated whether I should take a knife to half of my face just so people stopped asking if I was him.

The differences between me and Julian were few. I had a scar below my left ear from middle school when my friend tried to shoot a bow and arrow in my direction. He had good—seriously good—aim.

Beyond that, I had a few tattoos scattered on my forearms and on my back plus one on my thumb, but lucky me, they had movie makeup for that, and it was waterproof. I just wanted to be clean. It’s not like I needed the woman to wash me. Besides, the way she looked at me—or him—made me wonder if she hated him as much as she loved him.

My father hadn’t been very forthcoming with details of their relationship, only that they’d dated since college and had been engaged for the last three years. He said they were madly in love and the natural heirs to the Tennyson dynasty. Which either meant he could control them, or they were just as bad as he was.

Both options . . . not great.

She was on the taller side. Her blue flats probably cost more than a month of rent and two weeks of food for me and my mom. I tried not to be bitter, but everything about this glamorous, narcissistic lifestyle made me want to set the building on fire. The fact that I’d spent half my life in it not realizing what the rest of the world lived like just made the turmoil worse. I had been so selfish then, so spoiled. I wondered how I would have turned out had I stayed with my dad, had Julian gone with my mom.

In hindsight it made sense that it happened the way it did. My dad probably knew we would butt heads and I’d end up strangling him, while Julian hung on his every word, memorized his movements, prayed at night for Dad to tell him he was good enough.