My brain struggled to make sense of the cruel man in such a domestic setting and failed. He’d always been good to Brando, certainly kinder to him than he was with me, but this was new territory completely. Coupled with the knowledge Tilda had imparted yesterday about him being beaten as a child, I couldn’t stop the way the sight of him like that opened something up inside of me like a key in a lock. I shivered slightly, terrified of letting him in, but unable to help my burgeoning desire for exactly that.
Apparently, I was a masochist.
“He told me it’s his birthday,” Tiernan admitted with something like a grimace. “Apparently, it was the least I could do because I didn’t get him a present.”
When my eyes shot to Brando, his own were wide with faux innocence. He grinned at me, showing a large gap where he was still missing his right front tooth.
“Uh, yeah, well, it was,” he admitted shyly. “Four months ago.”
“Brando,” I admonished, but the scold held no weight because I was laughing at the look of shocked annoyance that flickered across Tiernan’s face. “You should absolutely not lie like that.”
“Well,” he reasoned, “I really wanted pancakes.”
Behind me, laughter erupted.
I looked over my shoulder, giggling too, to see Walcott and Patsy in the doorway, struggling to contain their mirth.
Tiernan scowled at them, which only made me laugh harder. I pressed a hand to my aching abs as I struggled to catch my breath. “Oh my gosh, that is too good.”
“I have no doubt who taught him how to use his charm like that,” Tiernan growled at me as he pressed the dirty pancake flipper into my chest, forcing me to grab it.
Melted remnants of the chocolate chips in the batter smeared across my new white sports bra. I choked on my laughter when Tiernan dipped his thumb in the mess and brought it to his mouth, sucking it off with his gaze hooked through my own.
Suddenly, I couldn’t remember what had been funny in the first place.
“See, Tiernan likes pancakes too,” Brando pointed out.
Dark delight moved through those peridot eyes as Tiernan sucked hard on his thumb, lips too pink and full. Unbidden, I imagined what they might look like suctioned around my nipple. If he would suck too hard, bite too harshly. If he’d leave pleasure like a wound.
“I’ll take over, Mr. M—”
“Yes,” he interrupted Patsy. “Please do.”
“You don’t want to make them with me?” Brando asked, his voice a sweet, high psalm.
Tiernan hesitated for just a beat, a tightening of his jaw, before he shook his head. “No, Brandon, I have work to do.”
We both watched as my little brother’s lower lip quivered before he bit down to hold it still. His eyes dropped into the bowl of remaining batter as he whispered, “Okay.”
My heart ached for him.
He’d lost his mother and his father and having me just wasn’t enough. He was a social, loving kid. He yearned for connection, especially in the wake of Aida’s death when we both felt cast adrift, isolated because of the simple fact that we had no one left to love us.
“I can help you, Brandy Boy,” I promised him, stepping in front of Tiernan deliberately before I walked over to my brother and bopped him on the nose. “I’ll even put in extra chocolate chips.”
Brando nodded, his curls veiling his face as he continued to stir the batter despondently. Behind me, the only signal that Tiernan had left was the brisk clip of his dress shoes over the slate floors. I wrapped my arms about around Brando, two fingers sliding gently against the pulse in his neck so I could count the beats. It helped dissipate the anger I felt at Tiernan for disappointing a little kid because he was too much of an asshole to take fifteen minutes for pancakes.
“I love you,” I said into his hair before pressing a kiss there.
I took the bowl from him gently and turned to make more pancakes. Silently, Walcott and Patsy came over to help me and set up plates for serving.
So no one was watching Brando.
“They don’t smell so good,” he murmured somewhat dazedly from behind me.
I was so mired in anger at Tiernan that I didn’t really hear him, cursing out our guardian instead.
If I’d been paying attention, I would have known.
Smelling something strange or bad was one of Brando’s warning symptoms.
A moment later there was an awful crash and sickening thud.
I spun around with my heart in my throat because I already knew what I would find.
Brandon had fallen off the island to the slate floors, his little body jerking wildly, his head already bleeding from the knock against the ground. Shards of crockery lay around his prone form like shrapnel, a piece cutting into his cheek each time he seized.
I was on my knees beside him in a nanosecond, the timer on my watch counting each second that he convulsed. Gently, I moved him onto his side, catching myself on a piece of porcelain as I brushed it out of the way.
Tiernan appeared in my line of vision, his face as grim as the Reaper’s.
“What can I do?”
I cradled Brando’s head gently on my thighs, bending to check the wound from his fall. It was a shallow cut, bleeding heavily as head wounds do, but not lethal.
“Clear the sharp pieces away from him so he doesn’t cut himself anymore,” I ordered.
Tiernan moved into action with cold efficiency, his cell tucked between his cheek and shoulder as he plucked shards off the ground. Pancake batter and blood stained his thousand-dollar suit pants, but he seemed unaffected. Patsy handed me a folded-up towel to use for his head, but Brando was already growing still and heavy, the seizure passing. I used the towel to staunch the blood flow from his head.
I always held my breath until he finally opened his eyes after an episode, air exploding in a sob from my lips as his lids fluttered and parted. His eyes were so blue, so vivid, it helped remind me that he was alive, that he would be okay.
“B-Bianca?” he slurred groggily, his gaze unfocused.
“Hush, I’m here, Brando,” I assured him, smoothing his pale hair back from his forehead. My hands were covered in blood, his and some of my own from slicing open my palm, but I didn’t care. “How do you feel, buddy?”
“Myheadhurts,” he continued to slur, but his eyes sharpened and he struggled to sit up.
I helped him, cradling his body between my legs. He rested against my chest, curling into me as he took a few deep breaths. I always tested his breathing, pulse, and mobility after a seizure to see if we had to go to the hospital or not.
“Hey,” Tiernan said, crouching in front of us. He hesitated before reaching out to rub a knuckle over Brando’s cheek. “You need to go to the hospital, kid?”
Brando shook his head, fisting my shirt in one hand as he pressed even closer. He was always sleepy and needy in the aftermath. Once I put him to bed, he would probably nap for hours.
“I timed it,” I explained to Tiernan. “It was under five minutes, which is the danger zone. As long as he can walk alright, he should be okay to stay home. I’m just worried about this cut…”
“I’ll call my private doctor,” he said immediately, already turning to his phone. “Ezra? Help Brandon and Bianca get upstairs.”
Ezra stepped out from the group that had gathered in the corner of the kitchen, watching us with varying degrees of concern. He offered a hand to Brando, who took it without question, getting up on weak knees to walk a few steps. He looked over his shoulder at me for validation that he didn’t have to go to the hospital, which he hated, and I sighed before nodding at him.