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My throat felt constricted. I remembered that cabin. Right by a field of corn, and a stream and the mountains I remembered roaming over with Torin. Always with Torin. Torin always by my side, bigger, taller. Not my shadow. The dark storm cloud that frightened people away from me.
“It’s probably in shitty condition,” I said, my voice sounding strange to my ears. “That sounds like a good project for you.”
I heard him move against the counter, but I still didn’t dare to look around. “It is in shitty condition,” he said. “And I think you mean a good project for us to do. You’ll of course be coming with me.”
My heart was in my throat. My goddamn brother! After 10 fucking years when he didn’t even contact me.
“I live here,” I said angrily.
“You belong with me,” Torin replied evenly. “That will always be true.”
“What are you going to do, throw me in the trunk?” I asked, spinning around finally to face him, but the sarcasm was lost on him.
“If I have to,” he replied.
My brother kept his eyes fixed on me, and his arms were crossed over his chest as he leaned against my kitchen island.
“I don’t own very many things in this world, Laoise,” he said, the gravelly tone of his voice making my spine liquid. “But I own you. You are mine and you always will be.”
“I’m not yours, Torin!” I yelled.
“Don’t lie to yourself, Lele,” he said.
“I’m not your Lele anymore,” I said, balling my hands into fists. “I’m not going to go anywhere with you either, and if you try to make me I’ll call the cops.”
I held his eyes, my face flushing, my breath ragged in my chest. My asshole brother looked unmoved.
“I’ll call your bluff, little sister,” Torin said tranquilly. “You would never give me up to the cops. You’ll be coming with me, like it or not.”
I turned angrily to him, filled with such a fury at his obstinacy that I grabbed the knife I had been using to cut the carrots and pointed it at him.
“I mean it, Torin! Stay away from me!”
His harsh lips twisted and he straightened up, pushing off from the kitchen island with a smooth, panther-like motion.
Only with me would he be amused at getting a knife pulled on him.
I eyed him nervously as he walked toward me, the plaid shirt rolled up on his arms, the worn jeans loose on his body.
“Stay away from me!” I repeated, pointing the knife at him.
He paused for a second, just out of knife range, his eyes still watching me.
“Put that knife down, Lele,” he said. “I’m afraid you’ll hurt yourself.”
“No!” I snarled. My breathing felt loud and ragged, the blood all rushing to my ears. He was the one who had taught me how to use a knife, where to stab someone to cause the most harm.
Torin held out his hand for the knife. “Give it to me, sister,” he said.
I felt the trickles of fear all along my spine, prickling at me with cold dread, but I kept my hand steadily pointed at him.
For a second there was a tense, breathless silence, then he took a step and walked directly into where I was pointing the knife, the sharpened surface slicing through his forearm. I gasped, the knife dropping from my hand, and Torin grabbed it before it reached the ground, flipping it around and deftly throwing it into the wall. It stuck there, vibrating in place.
“Why did you walk into the knife?” I cried in dismay, and he crossed the short distance between us, and put his hand on my arm.
“Because I had to get to you, Lele,” he said simply.
“Torin, your arm!” I shrieked, the blood dripping down his forearm onto mine. I reached around to grab a dishcloth, but he struck like a panther, grabbing my hand and preventing me from binding up the cut.
