Dylan (Inked Brotherhood 4)

“I kissed them, but that was all. Jesus, since when do you care?”

“I care,” he whispers. “I always have.”

“Well, then you deserve an Oscar for your performance, because it sure as hell didn’t look like it.” My eyes burn like fire. “We have nothing more to talk about.”

I turn back to my cooking, hiding my face. Might as well cook and get out of here as fast as possible.

“Tess...” he starts.

I wait for him to continue, but he’s silent again, and I work with jerky motions, fighting back the tears. This was the mother of all bad ideas. Audrey was right about everything. I’m going to finish this, walk about of here and never come back.

***

The kids eat their omelets and smear it on their faces, hands, arms, the table and the floor. In the end it’d be a miracle if any of it ends up in their stomachs.

Dylan eats slowly, looking down at his plate. So quiet. I wonder what’s going through his mind.

He shivers suddenly, a full-body shudder that has me narrowing my eyes. He’s still dressed in his sweat-drenched T-s

hirt, but it’s very warm inside the kitchen now, with the heater at full blast.

I shoo the boys away, and Dylan looks up.

“I’ll clean up,” he says and stands—then he makes a grab for the table, grips the edge and sinks back in his chair, his face white.

“Dylan!” I reach for him, my heart in my throat, but he turns away.

“I’m okay.”

“Really.” He looks about to pass out—like the other day in my apartment. What’s up with that? He’s always been so strong.

He sucks in a deep breath. “I’m okay, Tess.” He nods at something behind me and lifts a brow.

I turn and see his brothers watching us with round eyes, full of fear. Crap. They’re terrified.

“Come on, boys.” I take their limp little hands and drag them away.

“Is Dylan okay?” Teo asks in a small voice.

“Yes, he’s fine.”

“He’s just tired,” Miles says but doesn’t sound convinced. “He never rests.”

“Why don’t you too watch some TV while Dylan and I talk?”

They seem reluctant to let me go, also reluctant to stay in the living room, but once I find them some cartoons and settle them on the sofa, they let me go.

I rub my arms, feeling cold all of a sudden, as I return to the kitchen. I’m so worried for Dylan I can hardly breathe.

Yet when I enter, I find him putting the dirty dishes into the sink, his imposing frame looking too big for the small room.

“Let me do that,” I say, but he doesn’t budge or turn. “What happened back there?”

“Got light-headed. Happens when you get up quickly.”

“Not to you. Never seen it happen before.”

“You don’t see me so often.”