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Bran swallows the mouthful of toast and grimaces. “He’s actually four years younger.”
“Shut the fridge.” She gasps. “He doesn’t look a day younger.”
“Thanks, ma’am. That’s what I’ve been saying.” He slides his fork and knife on either side of his plate again. “Also, it’s only three and a half years. I’m going to be twenty in a couple of weeks.”
“Don’t ma’am me. Just call me Astrid. Make yourself comfortable and treat this like your home.”
“I wouldn’t recommend that.” I cut my toast with scrambled eggs and glare at him.
To give him credit, he doesn’t hold my gaze or glare back like his fucker cousin.
He lowers his head and says, “Once again, I’m sorry for showing up without previous notice. I thought I’d see Bran and leave.”
“Aw, such good manners.” My wife smiles. “And don’t worry, you’re welcome here any time.”
“I wouldn’t use the wordwelcome.”
“Dad,” Bran mouths pleadingly and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
There he goes defending the little fucker. I’m losing my children one by one to a bunch of wankers.
“So where did you guys meet?” my wife asks, battling against my every attempt to scare him away. Hopefully, he’ll act up and Bran will realize Nikolai is not for him.
Let’s cross all fingers for that very happy ending.
“It was at a…” Bran trails off. “Party.”
Nikolai smirks. “Yes. A party. I was all over him in no time.”
“You werewhat?” I snap.
“I mean.” His smirk disappears. “I was the one who noticed him first.”
“And you couldn’t keep your attention to yourself?”
“Levi.” Astrid pinches my thigh beneath the table.
“I’m afraid not, sir,” he answers with a straight face. “It was my destiny to meet your son and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
There it is. The same arrogance that courses through Killian’s veins instead of blood.
Bran ducks his head and smiles as he spreads an unhealthy amount of apricot jam on some toast.
My heart kind of fucking bursts.
I haven’t seen my son smile so broadly since…well, his pre-teenage years. Puberty changed him into this overly responsible, slightly depressed man. Where Lan grew into his obnoxious, too outward self, Bran turned inward.
Last night, when he told us it was because he didn’t want to come off as abnormal, it made me feel like a shitty father. I often tried to make him feel as special as his brother, but that didn’t matter if he himself didn’t believe in that fact.
“That’s so sweet.” My wife, who seems already taken by the little shit Nikolai, smiles and passes him a plate of eggs Benedict.
“He prefers a sweet breakfast, Mum.” Bran slides the jam sandwich that I thought he was making for himself in front of Nikolai and even gives him a whole plate of macarons.
“He doesn’t look the part,” she says.
“Don’t be fooled by the muscles. He has the most tragic sweet tooth I’ve ever had the misfortune to witness.”
“Guilty as charged,” Nikolai says after he finishes the toast in two bites like a barbarian. “Honestly, I work out so I can consume as many pastries as possible.”
