“Don’t even joke about that.” Killian’s tone is hard, even over the tinny speaker. It takes a moment for some of that stony anger to bleed from his features, but Dimitri’s sharp gaze is still burning into me at the words. “There’s another solution to this. You’re just refusing to take it.”
“You’re right. I am refusing to take it.” I hold my stepbrother’s eye. This is the first real conversation we’ve had since Thanksgiving, and after worrying for two days whether or not the sex in the office was going to complicate things between us again, I’m relieved to find it still comes easy to insist, “You’re not paying for my education. It’s no different from taking the money from Daniel.”
“It’s not Daniel’s money, it’s Lords’ money,” Tristian says, pushing his food toward me. He’s not ordering for me anymore, but whenever he gets the opportunity, he ‘shares’ his meals with me. Reluctantly, I pick up a slice of avocado and pop it in my mouth. “It’s at our discretion to use. We’ll just have a few less house parties.”
I shake my head. “No. I want to do this on my own.” There’s no way Daniel hasn’t had some hand in making the frat’s money.
Dimitri’s eyes track something across the shop, but I’m so distracted by the rare sight of them, clear and alert, that I almost miss his mutter. “Fuck. What the hell does this joker want?”
I follow his gaze and watch a guy coming our way. An instinctive wave of rage and nausea rolls over me, but I don’t know why at first. I just know that face—those cheekbones—and the lip curled into a smirk. Unthinkingly, like an instinct, I lean into Dimitri’s side.
There’s a moment of tense, silent stillness, and then Dimitri is draping his arm over my shoulders and tucking me close.
His long fingers toy with my hair. “It’s okay, baby,” he says quietly. “Even though it looks like Nick, it’s not. That’s Simon, his brother.”
The instant he says it, it all clicks. Why looking at him invokes memories of that day at the Hideaway. The way it suddenly feels like there are too many eyes in here. The instinct to hide behind Dimitri. At first glance, this man looks nothing like Nick. He’s darker-skinned and cleaner-cut, possibly older. But the closer I look, the more obvious it is. Their eyes are exactly the same. The structure of their faces. Even the way he holds himself is just like Nick, broad shoulders a perfect line, chin lifting as he surveys the three of us.
His hooded sweatshirt is emblazoned with Greek letters. DKS.
“Pretty Nick’s brother is a Duke?” I ask, stunned.
“Simon? No,” Killian answers, snorting. “He’s just a regular frat boy.” I look at Simon again and feel like disagreeing. He may just be a frat boy now, but there’s an edge to him. An authority. It’s familiar because I live with it every day. This guy has aspirations.
“What do you want, Sy?” Tristian asks before he reaches the table.
“Why do you think I want something?” he asks, strolling up. He even sounds like Nick, his voice a perfect deadpan. “I can’t just come by and say hello? Inquire about Killian’s health? Nick says he took a pretty bad hit.” I realize instantly that this Simon fellow couldn’t care less about Killian. It’s the air of superiority he holds himself with, but also the boredom in his stare, like it’s a second away from wandering to something more interesting.
Killian answers from the speaker, “It’s healing,” and the guy—Simon—doesn’t flinch at the realization he’s on the other side of the screen.
Smoothly, he adds, “Well, good job standing up to your dick of a father. I’ve been trying to get my wayward little brother away from him since high school. Maybe seeing his idol taken down a notch will make him see sense.” His eyes dart over to me. “But dealing with family is always a bitch, right?” Being under the weight of his stare is unnerving—far too intense a thing—but it doesn’t last long. He lives up to his brother’s descriptor: Pretty. But unlike Nick, Simon works for his prettiness. His jaw line is perfectly stubbled. It’s not the look of someone who’s a few days behind a shave. It’s the look of someone who intentionally keeps it that length—immaculately, maybe even compulsively. I bet he’s the same way with the tidily trimmed sides of his hair, even though the curl in the longer, top part is clearly natural. Biracial, would be my guess. It makes me wonder about him and Nick. Which parent do they share?