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I carefully wind a bandage around his bicep. “It’s just my sister teasing me. It’s hardly proof that I have nerves of steel.”
Uncle Kristian raises a sardonic eyebrow at me. “And yet, in all my years, no one has enraged me more than my own brother.”
“Brothers and sisters tease just to make you react. It’s bait, and you shouldn’t fall for it.”
“But how will I sleep at night if I argue with Troian and I don’t have the final word?”
I laugh and shake my head. “You’re such a youngest sibling.”
“You’re such an eldest sibling,” he throws back with a grin.
“You’re a troublemaker, and this part of you is the worst.” I touch his lips with my fingertips, and he kisses them, still smiling.
“You have no idea.”
Butterflies flutter in my belly.
Arron yawns noisily and heads for the stairs.
“How was your dad when you left the hospital?” Uncle Kristian calls after him.
“He was telling us all about the motorcycle accident until Chessa told him to stop. She’s mad about the whole thing. Goodnight, Zenya. ’Night, Uncle Kristian.”
We call our goodnights after him. Switching to Russian, even though we’re alone, Kristian says, “Chessa doesn’t understand what it means to be a Belyaev. You only understand it if you were born to it, like you and Troian. Or raised in it like me.”
I feel a tug in my chest, the same one I do every time I remember that Uncle Kristian and I aren’t really related. I don’t know why. I must be disappointed that he’s not my real uncle and his powerful blood doesn’t run in my veins. He’s the one in my family whose skin truly feels like my skin. When his commanding aura brushes against mine, it feels like he’s making me stronger. More daring. Braver. His thoughts are as readable as a book to me—just as mine are to him. In a crowded room, far apart and not speaking, when our eyes meet, we can have whole conversations.
That person is weak.
We should take advantage of this new development.
This place is boring. We should leave.
It’s the sort of connection I’ve heard of twins sharing, and so the fact that Uncle Kristian isn’t actually related to me is confusing. Frustrating. And—and—
I give a small shake of my head. I don’t know what else it is or even how to put this restless feeling into words.
Uncle captures my chin briefly between his thumb and forefinger. “What’s up, dandelion?”
I draw a bandage slowly through my fingers. The worst thing in the world would be to lose anyone else. I don’t think I’d be able to bear it. “You’ll always be my uncle, won’t you?”
I expect him to reply with an immediate, defiant,Of course I will, but when he remains silent, I stop what I’m doing and stare at him in shock.
He considers this, and he’s smiling. “Yes. Or no.”
I blink at him in confusion. “What?”
“If I had my way it would be both yes and no.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He just goes on gazing at me with that same speculative look in his frosty blue eyes. An expression that’s close to wolfish.
I shake my head and go back to bandaging him. “Normally, I know exactly what you’re thinking, but right now, I have no idea what’s going on in that mind of yours.” Except there’s a warm feeling spreading low in my belly that makes my heart beat faster. My body is picking up on something my brain can’t.
“That’s probably a good thing for now,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers through my hair.
I feel a familiar spurt of annoyance, the same as when Dad tells me he’ll fill me in on something when I’m older. “You’re starting to sound like Dad.”
