Moth (Dragon Triad Duet Book 1), page 14
“Fucking answer it,” he demands.
I do, scrambling to bring the receiver to my mouth. “H-Hello?”
“Hannah.”
“B-Bran?” I nearly drop the phone as fear penetrates my voice. Rafe stiffens, but I do my best to ignore him by injecting false cheer into my tone. “H-Hey… W-What’s going on? I…I was just making some breakfast.”
“Yummy,” he says flatly. “I texted you last night. You didn’t answer. I’ve been fucking texting you.”
“Oh, really?” I feign confusion. “My phone must have been on silent. I’m sorry.” My voice sounds hollow, like a bad actress speaking too loudly on stage. “And yesterday, I was really busy. We got tied up at the shop—”
“Too busy for me?” he counters. “The one person who gives a shit about you? For fuck’s sake, Hannah. All I ask is that you keep in contact with me. Is that so fucking hard?”
“I’m sorry—”
“Sorry? After everything I’ve fucking done for you? You know, you’ve been acting differently ever since that bullshit story made the paper. You think that means something? You’re so damn selfish. Wasting all this money on a worthless fucking degree, and for what? To get fucking attention by leaving home? Unless that’s not really why you came here. Take a picture,” he demands. “Now.”
“B-Bran…” The hurt pinching in my chest gives way to genuine alarm. My hair is a mess. Despite changing, I think there’s blood on my clothing. Too many flaws to disguise even in a simple snapshot—not to mention Rafe, looming as if daring me to make him move. “I just got out of the shower, Bran.”
He scoffs at the excuse. “Do it. Show me you’re safe. That you’re not fucking lying to me…” He pauses deliberately, and I have a horrible sense as to why he’s really so angry. “I had Liam come by your apartment last night—you weren’t there.”
I feel my thumb flinch for the red button at the bottom of the screen. Hanging up will only piss him off. Enrage him. But his prying is too much to take on top of my bloody sewing session last night and everything else crowding my skull for attention. My skill for enduring is nonexistent. For once, I can’t play along.
“I have to go.”
“Wait—”
“I love you. Bye.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Rafe watching me, his expression unreadable as I stow the phone in the pocket of my sweatpants. Did he hear any of that conversation? I can’t even look at him.
“You should leave,” I tell him softly.
“Sure thing, bunny.” Pulling away from the wall, he manages to keep his balance long enough to undo my series of locks and open the door. Right before he steps into the hall, his fingers reach out, grazing the jagged hole right beside the doorjamb—my breathing stills. Though, if he suspects anything at all from the sight, he doesn’t reveal as much out loud.
“Let me know when you want that favor,” he says, letting his hand fall. “Oh…and I hope your boyfriend doesn’t mind the mess.” Without ever looking back, he crosses over the threshold and slams the door in his wake.
Chapter Eleven
I’d been so naïve when I first moved into this place. To innocent Hannah from over a month ago, freedom could be found simply by scrubbing away the grime in her small, one-bedroom apartment to make it her own. Hope then had smelled like the dust and chemical cleaner that punctuated those first steps in reclaiming my life. Breaking away from Branden, I finally moved out, even if it were only a few minutes’ drive away.
That fragile pride had lasted all of the ten seconds it took for him to visit with his “housewarming” present. It sits on my TV now, an electronic eye staring blankly as I tackle the mess scattered across my apartment.
The spilled eggs.
The stray thread.
The blood.
I rearrange my throw pillows to cover the stains on the chair I can’t get out and sweep the wooden floors to no avail. It still looks barren. What had Rafe called it? A jail cell.
Desperate to ignore the phantom of him, I throw on a sundress and head outside, wandering aimlessly. I don’t go to the bookstore just yet. Instead, I take a longer route, cutting through a part of downtown that extends my walk by nearly twenty minutes.
Halfway, I find myself pausing near a pop-up market of all places. I don’t know why. Its offerings consist of fresh produce supplied by farmers from outside of the city. I grab some veggies with the idea of making them for dinner, but right before I leave, I snatch something else, leaving the money on the counter.
The bouquet of fresh yellow tulips smell, tickling my nose during the entire walk to the Paper Crane. I find a plastic cup and fill it with water, setting them aside, along with my veggies, while I get to work.
Today, I discover Mr. Zhang in the back room, poring over inventory. He spots me and nods in a silent greeting. “You’re just in time.” He points at a fresh box waiting to be unloaded. “You can help with this.”
We work in friendly harmony during the entire shift—without a visitor who barges in unannounced.
It doesn’t sink in until I leave that he never came. Is his leg still healing? Or worse…
Shaking my head, I try to dispel the worries. I shouldn’t give a damn if he’s in a ditch somewhere, suffering from an infection. He’d deserve it.
With my tulips and vegetables in hand, I force myself to head toward my building, putting all thoughts of him aside. But my legs rebel, and I keep going, eventually reaching a destination I should be doing everything I can to avoid.
It’s open. The light is on, and a lone figure leans against the counter with his back to the window. To the world. But he’s not alone.
Another man stands near the door, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket. From his size alone, I recognize him as the older man from the club. His voice is loud enough to hear from paces away. “You’re just going to let that fucker go? Any other time, you’d crush those sons of bitches—”
“Not tonight,” Rafe says without looking up. His voice conveys an authority even the older man seems to respect because he doesn’t interrupt. “Gino’s not an idiot. He’s desperate. We go too hard now and tip our hand, then he’ll have every right to retaliate. It’s better if we bide our fucking time. Let him sweat.”
“So you just let him off?” the man exclaims. “Fuck, Rafe. They could have killed your ass. If your uncle were here, he’d—”
“But he’s not, is he?” Rafe hisses, lifting his head. I’ve never seen his gaze so hard. “And in case you haven’t fucking noticed, I am not him—” He breaks off the second he spots me, his eyes narrowing. Almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head. Go. Just as quickly, he returns his attention to the man before him. “Shore up the club. If those assholes are dumb enough to come crawling back, then we can act. Got it?”
The other man whirls on his heel without comment and storms from the shop. He’s too irritated to even notice me as he marches past and climbs into a car parked alongside the curb.
As he drives off, a shadow falls over me, thicker than the darkness cast by the setting sun. “You’re a long way from home, bunny.”
I turn in time to catch him loping behind the counter. He moves easily enough, despite leaning slightly to one side. The wound must be in a position that doesn’t hamper his ability to walk. Or intimidate. “Back for more?” he wonders coldly from over his shoulder.
“More what?” I whisper, creeping forward until I’m standing in the doorway.
“Don’t play dumb.” He turns, shooting me a searching glance that leaves no doubt. He’s furious. “You know what.”
“I wanted to make sure you weren’t lying dead somewhere.” I hate how earnest I sound. “You didn’t come by the store.”
“No, no little bunny…” He wags a finger. “That’s not why you’re here. You wanted to play on the wild side a little more. Unfortunately, I’m too tired to play the role of a bad boy to your innocent nun right now.” He braces both hands against the countertop, glaring at the polished surface. “Go run back to Bran.”
“Nice.” I blink incredulously. His dismissive tone shouldn’t hurt. Maybe I could understand the hostility if the explanation weren’t so…obvious. “So, I save your skin, and you turn into an asshole because you’re jealous?”
“I’m not jealous,” he counters. “I’m bored. Of you. Now hop along, I have shit to take care of.” He shrugs me off and steps from around the counter, lumbering toward the back of the shop. “I said, get the fuck out.”
I leave, picking up speed, my chest tight. By the time I return to my building, I’m shaking. I push open the battered front door and enter the foyer only to stop short.
Unease runs down my spine as my gaze fixates on the old, wooden staircase leading upstairs. I’d be kidding myself if I claimed not to sense the wrongness in the air even before I climb the four flights up to my apartment. Sure enough, my door is ajar as if someone let themselves in but were too irritated to close it behind them.
So irritated that they broke through all five of my locks.
An intruder? A thief or murderer?
One could only hope. Deep down, I know the truth even before I prop open the door with my foot while clutching the tulips in one hand. Flowers are so distracting—I think there’s a reason people bring them to funerals, letting their bright colors and pleasant smells mask the stench of death and despair.
Amid all the pain, and fear, and horrible, cloying emotions…
There’s something pretty to look at.
At this moment, my tulip’s crisp scent mingles with the warm breeze blowing in through the open window and disperses throughout the space. The smell alone almost makes the tiny, cramped living room seem spacious and inviting. The secondhand furniture gleams in the flickering light of a fluorescent fixture hanging from the ceiling. I barely notice the scuffs on the hardwood floor or the peeling paint on the far wall, which the landlord swore were just “part of the charm.”
It’s perfect.
Until it isn’t.
A tall, lanky figure crouches beside my television, fiddling with the supposedly broken camera perched on top of it. He frowns, his handsome features creased in concentration. His body propped on one knee as his muscular arms ripple with tension.
“Branden?” My other hand is curled around the bottom of a shopping bag that I have to keep bouncing higher on my hip. I can’t even reach for the cell phone in my pocket as it continues to buzz incessantly with incoming text messages. Only now can I admit to myself that it’s been going off all day.
“You weren’t answering your phone,” he says without turning around. He inspects the camera, gazing into its unseeing lens while inserting something into the back of the device.
Fixing it.
“You’re supposed to be in Santa Barbara,” I rasp.
Despite the gray T-shirt and jeans he wears, anyone with an ounce of deduction skills can tell he’s a cop. It might take a bit more sleuthing, however, to figure out that—despite the stern expression and rigid posture—he’s also supposed to be “enjoying” his two-week-long vacation.
“Where were you?”
“At work,” I say. “Then, I went shopping.”
He darts his gaze in my direction, honing in on my bag of veggies and fresh flowers. “Those are pretty,” he says, nodding toward the tulips. “It’s about damn time you did something to brighten up the place.”
His hazel eyes sweep the narrow living room disapprovingly from the plain brown couch and gray armchair to the hardwood floors and minuscule kitchen space. This is normal, I tell myself. Most big brothers let themselves into their sister’s tiny apartments uninvited. They install video cameras in their living rooms and request that their partners make drive-by visits in the middle of the night—but most big brothers don’t have service weapons tucked into their back pockets.
Most brothers aren’t Branden.
“Camera’s fixed,” he says, rising to his feet. “Try not to break this one, okay?”
“I thought you weren’t coming back until next week?” It’s a harmless question on the surface.
But his eyes flash, his fingers tearing through his hair. “What, you liked having me away?”
“N-No.” I know better than to argue. Instead, I place my tulips on the end table near my door. Then I cross the four feet of space it takes to enter the kitchen. Inhaling deeply, I arrange my veggies on the counter, trying to decide what I’ll keep in the fridge and what I’ll leave out to ripen.
Tomatoes? Maybe out.
Peppers? In the fridge…
If I squint or squeeze my eyes shut, I can almost pretend I’m alone again. Almost. Branden’s unease seeps into the walls, making them seem to close in, inch by inch…
“Kaitlin had some work to finish up for an assignment, so we came back early,” he explains, referring to his wife’s job as a consultant. “Try not to look so disappointed.”
“I’m not.” I turn to find him staring resolutely out of the window as if ignoring his surroundings makes them easier to stomach. “I’m g-glad to see you. I am.”
His jaw twitches, though his overall expression remains neutral. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
I palm a carrot, then a tomato. “I told you. I was shopping—”
“How was I supposed to know that? You could have been murdered or unconscious somewhere. I told you to answer your fucking phone when I call.” His steps slam against the floorboards. Thud. Thud. Thunk.
The tomato I’m holding slips from my grasp, bouncing across the length of my kitchen.
And he stops. “I’m just saying that you’re not used to living in this type of neighborhood… It’s not like how it is back home. You’re not living on Mommy and Daddy’s property where a gate and a security guard keep the world at bay. Hannah—” His voice takes on that heavy edge that means he’s about to deliver one of his trademark “I’m just looking out for you” speeches. “I just don’t understand why you had to move out. You had a room all to yourself. A bathroom. Kaitlin didn’t mind, and I could protect you.”
“I’m twenty-one, Bran,” I whisper.
But to be honest, I’m not sure why either after so many years of living under his thumb. Why now? Why this ratty place, as far from his as my budget—and fall classes—would allow. It certainly wasn’t the only rental listing and definitely not the most spacious. I think the real answer lies in the fact that I scouted it out on my own. Met with the landlord and toured the dusty rooms on my own. In fact, I hadn’t even told Branden I was moving out until I’d paid my security deposit.
And phoned my parents to get their approval.
If I let him talk me out of this apartment, it will be even easier for him to talk me out of the next one. And the one after. In the end, I’ll be thirty, still living in his guestroom under his careful watch.
Even with the stupid camera, this is better.
“Are you busy tonight?”
Alarm shoots down my spine. This conversation isn’t anywhere near over. Not that I’m in any position to stall. My throat constricts, but I force myself to keep breathing.
Stay calm.
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Good.” He crosses over to the door, pulling it open. “I’ll take you out to dinner. We need to talk.”
“Dad called.” Branden casually tucks a piece of brown hair behind his ear and glances at the ornate mirror hanging on the wall across from where we stand. In lieu of his uniform, he’s wearing a White Sox T-shirt and a pair of jeans. The casual attire cuts years off his age; he almost resembles a college student taking a break from finals.
And our resemblance is on display to its fullest effect—light and dark—two halves of the same damaged coin.
Beside him, I look sickly. My hair is an unruly mess coiled on the top of my head, and bloodshot eyes betray the lack of sleep I’d gotten last night. The only redeeming quality is my outfit—a starched yellow blouse and a gray skirt—but it’s painfully obvious I overcompensated. Bright colors and neatly ironed lines can only disguise so much.
Like the scent of secondhand smoke lingering in my clothing.
The blood still caked beneath my fingernails.
The touch I still feel rasping over my skin.
“Hannah?”
“Oh?” I shrug, though my heart is racing. Random invitations to dinner simply aren’t Branden’s style.
He even let me pick the place, so we went to The Red Duck, a Chinese restaurant a few blocks away from my apartment. Despite how he sneers at the scenery, he has yet to make a single derogatory comment. It’s like he’s gearing up to broach one topic in particular.
His next words prove it. “So…Dad said you asked for some money?”
“Yeah.” I do my best to muster up what I hope passes for another casual shrug. In the mirror, my failure is reflected. My eyes are too wide. Fearful.
“You did,” Branden says cautiously. “What for?”
From across the room, a waitress approaches, wearing a bright red kimono-style miniskirt. She’s pretty with long black hair accented with a sparkly butterfly hair clip and dark eyes that dart from me to Branden and widen. Her reaction makes me frown. Something about her face triggers a sense of recognition, but I don’t know why. My attention keeps drifting to her hairclip, and that uncanny sensation grows stronger.
I know her somehow.
But her name isn’t familiar. A name tag pinned to her chest reads, “Faith,” which seems ironic enough to explain the unease. If only Branden had any faith left in me—maybe then I could avoid the interrogation that I know is coming.
Right on cue, he clears his throat. “You never ask for money. And since when are you into designer purses?”
Biting my lip, I say nothing while Faith leads us to a secluded booth near the back of a beautifully decorated dining room.
“H-Here you are,” she says, cutting her eyes to the floor as Branden pushes past her and settles onto the bench. She’s gone before I’ve even taken my seat.
