Page 94 of Ghosted

But he doesn’t hit me again.

He just stands there, breathing hard through his nose, looking at my face like he’s trying to remember why murder before noon is a bad idea.

“You go near her again,” he says, “and there won’t be a warning next time.”

I wipe blood off my bottom lip with my thumb and look at the red smear. “That was the warning?”

His stare doesn’t move.

“No,” he says. “That was me being nice.”

A laugh slips out of me, rough because my mouth is swelling. “Jesus. She really did a number on you.”

His hand shoots out and catches me by the throat. Not enough to choke. Just enough to make the point. His thumb presses under my jaw, exactly where the punch already hurts.

“Do not,” he says, each word slow and mean, “talk about her like that.”

I should stop, but obviously, I don’t.

“You hate it, don’t you?” I ask, voice rough under his grip. “That she got under your skin without even trying. That she told you no and you actually listened. That she shut the door in your face, and you stayed there anyway like a good fucking dog.”

His fingers tighten.

My pulse kicks against his palm.

“And then there’s the part you really don’t want to think about,” I say. “She let me in.”

He goes still again and fuck if that ain’t sweeter than the rage.

“She let me into her space,” I murmur. “Into her tight little cunt, and then gave you the hallway.”

His fist lifts again, but stops.

I look at it, then back at him. “Jeeze, this self-control thing is getting depressing.”

He lowers his hand slowly, but his face has gone flat in a way that makes my skin prickle.

“Don’t look so upset, little brother. I get it now.” I wipe my mouth, smearing blood over my thumb. “You don’t want me away from her because I’m dangerous. You want me away from her because she makes you feel like something can be taken.”

His eyes go colder.

Aw, little brother didn’t like that one.

“You want to stop me?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer, but his shoulders shift, and the whole room seems to tighten around him. The air changes before he does, heavy and mean, like it knows something ugly is about to happen.

Wraith.

My brother is gone. The boy who used to follow me into bad ideas and pretend he didn’t enjoy the fucking dark is no where in sight.

Wraith is quieter. Meaner.

Controlled in the way a blade is controlled right before it opens.

My pulse kicks hard.

I push off the counter anyway, because apparently self-preservation skipped me entirely. “Then fucking do it.”