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Even though he shouldn’t leave his tools and clay out, Dante couldn’t pass up the opportunity. Grabbing the leather jacket he’d thrown on the kitchen chair the previous night and pushing his feet into the heavy shoes by the door, Dante locked the door and sprinted out to the woods, determined to find out what his little buddy was up to. He wasn’t really little anymore though. Tristan at sixteen was already filling out pretty solidly, his body a witness to his harsh training.
Dante wondered sometimes if he wouldn’t have been the same in his shoes. Though he’d been training for years, Dante had yet to make his first kill. He had seen people executed, he had interrogated many of them himself, but the actual kill? He still had to take a life.
Maybe that left a mark on the soul. Maybe that was why Tristan was as he was. Killing, that too his own father, at such a young age after losing his sister. Some days, Dante wanted to give the bastard a hug. But he was pretty sure he’d come back missing a limb if he even tried.
After trying to find him for a few minutes, Dante realized he’d lost the guy. More likely, Tristan had shaken him off his trail. Sighing, he decided to head back and have some cookies, taking some over to Damien. At least his brother liked his company.
“You like the cookies?” Dante asked Damien as they sat in the gazebo behind the mansion, playing chess. Damien loved to play chess and Dante loved to play with him.
Damien’s foot tapped in sets of three as he moved the knight, nodding. “These cookies taste better than last time. Her sugar content is lower this time.”
Tap, tap, tap.
Tap, tap, tap.
Dante grinned. Trust his brother to note the technicalities in a cookie.
“Zia is nice. Her daughter brought me the cookies this morning,” Dante informed him. “She has really nice green eyes that I think you’ll like.”
Damien looked up towards Dante’s neck. He didn’t like eye contact. “Did you know green eyes are the rarest in the world? Less than 2% of the entire population has them. What shade are hers?”
Dante recalled the eyes he’d seen that morning. “Um, forest green I think? Like the color of rainforest trees.”
Movement from the side had him watching Tristan coming out of the woods. The younger boy stopped in his tracks, watching both Dante and Damien for a long minute, before walking off towards his cottage.
“They’re the only eye color that can change shades depending on mood and light as well,” Damien continued as Dante focused back on the chess, moved his piece, taking out a pawn. “It’s called the Rayleigh effect. Does it happen to your Green Eye Girl?”
“Her name is Amara,” Dante helpfully supplied but his brother had found his new little passion.
“Green Eye Girl-”
“And no, I don’t think her eyes change color.”
“-has an even rarer shade even in the spectrum of green eyes. If hers are the ones that don’t change the color or follow the Rayleigh, that’s even rarer. Fascinating-”
Dante smiled as Damien continued about the green eyes, playing chess.
Something was wrong.
Dante had made the arrangements for his brother to live at the home for a year, under the care of psychiatrists who could hopefully guide him into understanding himself and give him the tools he needed to navigate the world. He had spent the last hour talking to Damien about it too. While people underestimated Damien’s intelligence, he was a keen boy. He understood that he needed more help than he got at the compound, and accepted a little trip out of the place as long as Dante promised to visit him regularly. There wasn’t a chance he wouldn’t. He loved the little fucker.
But something was wrong. He didn’t know what, couldn’t put a finger on it. But there was a weight in his gut, an age-old voiceless scream at his protective instincts.
Could it be separation anxiety, perhaps? After all, it was the first time he’d be away from his brother.
‘Your heart will always know your truth, Dante. Trust it.’
Was he lying to himself? God, this was a mess. No, it was the best for his brother to get away from this place and get a shot at a normal life.
The ringing of his phone brought him out of his conflict.
Father calling.
Peachy.
“Yes, father?” Dante addressed him as he always did, barely able to suppress his loathing for the man.
“Come to the shack.”
