“In secondary school. High school to you Americans. It’s a memento to the younger version of him.”
“You…knew.”
“That he’s adopted? Of course. Everyone knows.”
Oh. How come no one told me? Maybe it’s a close-circle thing and I don’t belong there. Although I’m slightly hurt, I decide to focus on a much more pressing issue.
“Do you also know of his…past?”
“There’s nothing I can tell you about it aside from what he divulged.”
“I just want to know if he became the way he is due to that.”
“The way he is?”
“I’m sure you know he’s a…sadist.”
He grins. “Proud of him.”
Of course he is. Now, I’m starting to understand why Ava calls him He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.
Eli is an anomaly.
But maybe he’s the type of brother Creighton needed while growing up with that sort of baggage.
“So?” I press. “Is he that way because of his past?”
“Maybe. Probably.”
It dawns on me then. Creighton once said that he eats too much because he was starving at a point in his life. And he probably sleeps whenever possible because of how he felt when suffocated by the gas.
When he was dizzy and crawled and crawled.
Goosebumps erupt on my skin with creepy speed, like when he was telling me the story last night.
To think that someone so young went through that makes me want to cry.
But I don’t want him to take it as pity. I really do not pity him. I just want to be there for him.
I’m apparently shit at expressing that, though, because he was offended by my words last night and took it out on my poor body.
“My turn to ask questions.” Eli’s voice brings me back to the present. “How did you coerce him to talk?”
“I didn’t.”
“Try again. He went through intensive therapy when he was a kid and has long since gotten past that phase of his life. He wouldn’t talk about it unless he was poked. So tell me, Annika. What type of poking method have you used?”
“I really didn’t. I just asked about his tattoo.”
He narrows his eyes for a beat, then schools his expression. “Huh.”
We remain silent for a moment before I murmur, “Do you know where he is?”
He cocks his head to the left. “In the kitchen.”
“Thanks.” I start in that direction, only to find out that Eli is coming with me. I choose not to comment on that in order to avoid any type of unnecessary conflict.
If I want to be with Creighton, I need to get used to Eli since he’s part of his life.
A commotion greets us as soon as we open the door.
Creighton is wearing an apron and scrolling through his phone while flour stains his hands, face, and even his pants.
Remi seems to be his coach, considering the matching aprons and his folded arms.
Across from them sits Brandon, seeming oblivious to the whole mess as he drinks his coffee and reads from a tablet.
“I’m telling you, spawn, all these recipes are stupid and wrong. How dare they compete with my lordship’s opinion?”
Bran lifts a brow. “And you happen to be an expert?
“Of course.” Remi throws his hands in the air. “I’m always right.”
“More like always wrong,” Creigh mutters.
“What the fuck? What the actual fuck, spawn? I woke up early after my shagging session last night—make that sessions—to help you with your quest and you say I’m wrong? I’m reporting you to human rights associations for abuse.”
“Here we go again.” Bran sighs.
“You shut up. Don’t go acting innocent after you started this irreparable rift between father and son. Spawn, how could you do this to me?”
“Focus,” Creigh says, still looking at his phone. “How much butter should we heat?”
“Enough to drown Remi in.” Eli strolls inside, grabs an apple from the table, and grins.
“Blimey, what’s with all the violence directed at me this morning?” Remi pretends to hold up a phone. “Hello? Witness protection? Come pick me up.”
Creighton lifts his head, his eyes meeting mine from across the kitchen before they slide to his brother and narrow. He tilts his phone away, finger pressing at the back of it as he sizes me up from head to toe and back again.
The air shifts with hungry, animalistic tension that I’m surprised no one in the room picks up on.
When he shows no intention of cutting eye contact, I swallow the lump in my throat. Focus on the others. “Hi, guys.”