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“No problem.” He’s scrutinizing my face.
I skim my tongue over my swollen lip. I taste blood. Glancing at the mirror, I clearly see that I busted my fucking lip open.
Farrow sticks a new piece of gum in his mouth. “That’s not healing in four days, by the way.”
Fuck. Shit. “Mannaggia,” I curse out loud, and I rake my hand across my unshaven jaw. The twin switch—I can’t pretend to be Banks if I’m the one with a visible wound. This isn’t a bruise I can conceal with makeup.
I should’ve been thinking.
An apparent, unspoken solution hangs between Farrow and me. My muscles flex and eyes tighten. “I’m not punching my brother.”
Farrow chews his gum slowly. “Will he be thrown back if you do?”
I take a beat. “No. Banks doesn’t have PTSD.” Just physical pain. My brother still hides his frequent migraines from everyone. Hell, he covers up most injuries.
Just then, the door cracks open. Banks slips inside the bathroom, concern cinching his brows.
“I’m snapped to,” I tell him.
He nods, and I explain how Farrow doesn’t think my lip will heal before I fly out.
Banks cuts me off midway through. “Those idiots are as sharp as marble—they won’t be able to tell a difference if we both have busted lips.”
Yeah.
“So someone needs to hit me in the mouth,” Banks states.
I barely nod, neck stiff.
“It can’t be you, Thatcher.” Banks sounds adamant.
I stare hard at my brother.
We’ve wrestled and sparred each other plenty before, but I can’t lie—this feels different. Maybe because I just got my mind right.
I turn to Farrow.
His lip rises, entertained at the absurdity of this situation. “You really want me to hit your brother?”
“I’m not forcing you,” I tell him. “But yeah.” I trust Farrow.
I’ve always trusted him. And I need him.
“Okay.” Farrow slides off his silver rings from his right hand. His smile grows. “Shit, this is not how I thought today would be going.”
Banks begins to smile and kneels on the tile. “Just don’t knock my teeth out.”
Farrow has a strong right hook, but the Oliveira brothers were pro-boxers and would do worse damage in a single blow.
“You’re not the Moretti brother I’ve wanted to uppercut,” Farrow says lightly. “Your teeth are safe.” His joke alleviates some tension.
My lip wants to lift.
Banks makes the sign of the cross, and I weave my arms over my taut chest. Watching as Farrow forms a fist.
One breath later, he slings his knuckles at my brother, landing with precision on his mouth. His head whips to the side, lip broken open.
I force back a stabbing pain. We planned this, I remind myself. But seeing Banks hurt will always hurt me to some degree.
Farrow shakes out his hand. “Good?”
Banks touches the spot, blood on his fingertips. He cracks a quarter of a smile. “What do you think?” he asks me.
“Yeah.” I nod. “Should work.” I clasp his hand and help him to his feet. I upnod to Farrow in thanks on our way out. We return to the mats where the meeting is taking place, and the team quiets and zeroes in on my brother’s swollen mouth.
Sinclair grimaces. “Which one of you shit-tickets hit him?”
“I fell, sir,” Banks lies.
SFO is smiling. I focus more on the Alpha lead, Price’s glare drilling me with fueled disappointment.
I hear Jane. I’m very, very proud of you.
Remember that.
I’m trying. My chest rises.
“You fell?” Sinclair knows my brother is bullshitting, but he nods and says, “Stop tripping over your damn feet, gent.”
“Yes, sir.”
13
THATCHER MORETTI
Only 2 days until Scotland, and there’s another loose thread that needs to be tied.
Comms active, gun holstered, I stand on guard against the doorframe of a familiar geeky bedroom, triple the size of any bedroom I’d ever seen as a kid.
A six-foot-four armored knight lords over a four-poster bed. Beanbags surround an expensive game console, fantasy paperbacks spilling out of a bookcase. Boxers, tees, and jeans pile on a dresser—more messy than clean, but I’ve seen this place look like a hurricane ripped through.
The bed is made and most empty cans of Fizz and Sprite are actually in the trash bin.
What’s new: the dumbbells in the corner, handwraps and boxing gloves on a desk, hiding a stack of 10th grade homeschool textbooks.
Xander Hale gawks like I just laid out a mission to Mordor. Jaw hanging, eyes wide—he slowly shakes his head. “What?”
My brows pull together. I didn’t expect this reaction from him.
All I can think is: unfuck this before I fuck it completely.
I need Xander on board with the twin switch. Because pretending to be my brother while my brother pretends to be me is a type of manipulation.
A twin swap for a one-day prank is different. Easy. Harmless. To swap with the intention to fool others for my own benefit, not just for shits and giggles—it’s wrong.
Clear-cut.
And the only way to make this okay in my head is to ensure we’re not tricking people who matter to us. Her parents—Banks can’t run into Rose and Connor Cobalt.
And Xander—he has to know the truth. Hell, even if we didn’t tell him, I think he’d notice that Banks isn’t me.
We decided that I’d tell Xander the plan only a couple days before the trip. Less time for him to agonize over the details, the better. But now—staring at his slack-jawed, wide-eyed expression—I’m afraid we miscalculated.
He needs more time to process.
My stomach clenches, and I repeat the first part of the plan. “I’m switching places with Banks. He’ll be here next week to protect you, then I’ll be back.”
Xander is balancing on Maximoff’s old skateboard. Fizz soda in hand, he sinks down in a daze and sits on the board. “You can’t be serious…” Brown hair hangs in his eyelashes.
“I trust Banks with you,” I say with everything I have, “and right now, I need to be with Jane.” It’s never felt more necessary. I can want and desire my girlfriend, but I need to be the man at her side come Scotland.
Not Tony.
Not her brothers.
Not Maximoff or Farrow.
That man has to be me. She wants a teammate, and she needs to see that we’re meant to stand at the end of the line together. That no matter the circumstances, I’ll rip through shackles and be there for her—always.
Forever.
That word stuns my churning brain and ripples through me like life-threatening voltage.
Forever.
I’m barely hanging onto now with Jane. I can’t think about more.
Xander flicks his soda can tab. “That’ll never work, Thatcher—you switching with Banks, I mean.”
“Are you against it?”
“No, no way. I’d do anything for you and Banks. You guys know that.” His amber eyes soften on me. For a single beat, he’s that nine-year-old kid that I carried to safety. Fragile and innocent.
But he’s not nine anymore.
Tissues and lotion are on his nightstand, his voice has dropped, and if he were still standing, he’d stand tall at six-two. His biceps are cut, gaining more strength.
He’ll be sixteen this month, on Christmas day, and I’ve been waiting for him to make it there.
Because my older brother never did. And if I do anything in my life, Lord, let me have this. Helping Xander live when I couldn’t do the same for Sky.
You should’ve biked harder.
You should’ve biked harder.
You should’ve fucking biked harder.
My jaw tics.
I shove down my dad’s crushing voice, and I nod to Xander. “We’ll be able to execute the plan. You don’t
need to worry about it.”
His mouth falls. “You really don’t think you’ll get caught? You two don’t look that much alike, man.”
The corner of my lip inches upward, just slightly, because Xander genuinely believes Banks and I look different. “That’s probably because you grew up around us. For other people it’s harder to tell the difference. Even worse when we’re not standing together.”
“But my parents will definitely know.”
