by Nichole Van
As I worked, a part of my brain hummed in disbelief.
I was touching Branwell’s bare arm.
I repeat. His bare arm.
Before today, I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I had seen any of Branwell’s skin besides his face. He kept himself so tightly covered.
But right now . . .
His skin was pale from years of hiding from the sun. Not my own pasty-white color, of course. More of a gentle olive tone, the natural color of his Italian heritage. Dark hair dusted his arms and the back of his hands.
His hands . . .
Long fingered and thin. Veins blue and stark just under his skin. Sensitive hands. It seemed incongruous, such expressive hands on his lumberjack-esque body.
“You wanna tell me what happened?” I asked. “’Cause I’m thinking this isn’t the first occurrence.” I touched the thin white scars extending up the back of his hand and onto his lower arm. How could I not have known about these scars? It showed me how much and, yet, how little I knew Branwell.
Silence.
I could feel his eyes skimming me, resting on my face before staring at my own hands holding his.
My clinical, medic-detached mask slipped. My heart thumped erratically, speeding up.
I drew a finger up one of the white scars. Intellectually, I knew his skin was normal body temperature, but my feverish hormones registered it somewhere on a scale between fiery and lava.
Tension hummed.
Well, for me, at least.
Not sure what Branwell was feeling. His expression was closed and drawn. Probably worried over how Tennyson would react to this whole scenario.
“Did you see anything?” he finally asked.
“What do you mean? With the vase?
He nodded.
“I saw you cry out, like the vase was burning you,” I said.
“But did you see anything?”
“Not really.” I paused, remembering. “It’s hard to say. My first thought was, ‘Why is smoke coming out of that vase?’ but it could simply have been a trick of the light—”
“You saw a darkness extending from the vase?”
“Sort of. It’s hard to describe. It wasn’t clear. Just a dimming of the light around your hand.” A beat. “What did you see?”
A long pause . . . so drawn out, I wasn’t sure Branwell was going to answer me. I went back to cleaning his wounds, not sure how to take his silence.
Finally, he inhaled, slow, measured. “I saw a claw-like . . . thing.”
I stilled, shock jolting me. I wasn’t sure why. Given his wounds, something had obviously slashed him.
“They sting.” He clenched his jaw. “The scratches. They’re never really deep but they hurt. Like . . . like—”
“Like there’s a toxin in them?” I completed his sentence, continuing to dab away the blood.
“Exactly.
“How did it happen?” I asked.
“The first time?”
“Yeah.”
He watched my hands gently cleaning his arm.
“I was thirteen. It was a teapot in Nonna’s china cabinet that did it.”
“A teapot?”
“Yeah, an antique silver teapot. A D’Angelo family heirloom dating from the late eighteenth century. My GUT had strengthened again that year, and I had learned how to concentrate and skim through past sounds of an object. The teapot had a small dent on the side and knowing it had been in the family for a quite some time, I was curious.”
“Ah. You wanted to hear voices of your ancestors?”
“Something like that. Things were going downhill rapidly for my father. My parents had separated by that point, and we were visiting Italy for a few weeks. Being thirteen is hard enough without the added weight of watching your father slowly devolve into madness. Part of me wanted to prove that our family ‘gift’ wasn’t completely awful. The dent hinted at a change. I figured if I heard something cool, I could tell Dante and Tennyson about it and give us all hope.”
“So you touched it?”
“Yeah. I still remember the horror of wrapping a hand around the teapot and seeing this amorphous . . . thing come out of it. To my eye, it looked vague and shadowy, but its cutting claws were decidedly tangible. I’m not sure how I managed to let go of the teapot. My hand was bleeding and hurt so bad. I bandaged up my cut hand and told some story about a stray cat. My mom fussed over the scratches, but my dad just looked at me funny.”
“Sensing your lie?”
“Probably. He never said anything, and I never asked him about the experience. Had I known how short my time would be with him, I would have.” He paused. “I should have.”
Sadness wound through his voice. Their father committed suicide when the triplets were only sixteen.
I dabbed away blood from the last scrape and wrapped his arm in the dry towel, applying pressure to ensure the bleeding stopped.
“This claw-attacking thing happened again, I take it?” I asked.
“Yeah. It’s happened four other times. The only common denominator between the attacks are the objects themselves. They’ve all been shiny.”
“Shiny?”
“Glossy, bright, shiny. Like the teapot and silver vase. Though they haven’t all been metal, so that’s not a commonality. Glass and glossy plastic have also caused it.”
“Sheesh, no wonder you’re paranoid about touching things.”
He snorted. “It’s easier to just let my family assume I’m OCD and weird—”
“Wait. They don’t know about these attacks?”
He inhaled, cheeks sucking inward.
That was all the answer I needed.
“Branwell!” My tone utterly scandalized. “Your family loves you. How could you not tell them—”
He silenced me with a look. Hazel eyes boring into mine, gold and green sparking in their brown depths.
“How do you think that would go over for them?” His deep voice vibrated in the room. “To let them know my GUT . . . what? Makes me a target for supernatural creatures?”
“Supernatural creatures? Like what?”
His shoulders gave an I have no clue lift.
“Something did this.” He nodded toward his arm. “And it’s clearly not a natural phenomenon.”
True.
“Well, still.” I grimaced. “Your family could help. You know how much Chiara likes researching this sort of thing—”
“Yes, and Dante and my mom could coddle me even more—”
“Branwell.” A warning tone. “They worry about you.”
He let out a humorless laugh. “Don’t I know it.”
“Then let them help you.”
“To what end? Honestly, Lucy.” He raked his free hand through his hair. Or, rather, tried to and ended up pulling out the elastic holding his man bun together. His hair tumbled around his face, dark threaded with sun-kissed curls.
He lifted his eyes back to me. Shook his head, hair moving.
“In the grand scheme of our lives, this”—he waved a hand over his injured arm—“is small potatoes. I can’t even conceive of adding this burden to everyone’s worries. Tennyson deals with so much more on a daily basis.” He shot me a hesitant look, searching for my reaction to Tennyson’s name.
Another pause, laden with things unspoken.
I cleared my throat.
“How is Tennyson?” I asked, partly to show that I had no problem talking about him.
“The same.”
Yep.
The fact that Tennyson had sent Branwell to help me, instead of coming himself, more or less summed up his mental state—concerned but not to a place where he could face me.
“I’m sorry to hear it. You know I only want Tennyson’s happiness.”
Branwell nodded.
I should have left it there. Moved on. But, for some reason, I needed Branwell to understand.
“He would never have been happy with me, Branwell. I know you all think differently, but he never really lov
ed me. Tennyson was more in love with what I represent.”
Silence.
“And that is?” he asked.
“Happiness. Freedom. But, deep down, we are fundamentally different people. I loved him—I still do love him—like a brother. But that’s not the type of love to build a lifetime on.”
Particularly when I’m already in love with you.
Given all the uncomfortable places this conversation could go if Branwell decided to ask follow-up questions, I changed the topic.
“These scratches aren’t too deep.” I released the pressure on the towel. “I need to bandage them, but you also need to clean up.”
Branwell glanced down at his clothing.
His shirt and jeans were a bloody mess. Literally.
“Why don’t you shower,” I continued, “and then I’ll bandage up your arm. Jeff might have a shirt that will fit you, at least. I’ll try to get the worst of the blood out of your jeans while you’re washing up.”
“I can clean the jeans myself.”
“Are you sure?”
“I can do it.”
Stubbornly self-sufficient. Branwell at his finest.
I led him down the hall, snagging a towel from the linen closet and ripping a strip from it to tame the sound.
Once I heard the shower come on, I darted into my own room and took a few minutes to change my own clothing, finding jeans, a clean t-shirt (Bad Spellers Untie!) and pulling my hair into a less precariously-perched messy bun.
I then dug through Jeff’s closet and found a long-sleeved gray t-shirt that would probably fit Branwell well enough. (World’s Okayest Brother . . . could I give a Christmas present or what?)
Snagging a needle and black thread, I crashed on the living room couch and started to sew a zig zag design around the bottom hem. Branwell preferred sewing fancy protective runes which were beyond my rudimentary skills. But my novice stitches were better than ripping the shirt.
Besides, it was a soothing, keep-busy sort of task and I needed a chance to just . . . be. To process everything that had happened.
Grace and the horror of the past twenty-four hours. The exquisite pain of seeing Branwell again, all tied up in the guilt of how everything went down with Tennyson.
Tennyson and I had met in Portland in a forest ecology class. It was the standard college meeting. He sat next to me in class, commented on my t-shirt (Pessimism . . . It’s probably not that great). I laughed and flirted. He invited me to study with him—
Let me just state the obvious here.
Tennyson is drop-dead gorgeous. The twins are good-looking guys. Branwell and Dante have that rugged masculinity thing down.
But Tennyson . . .
He’s in an entirely different category.
Shorter and leaner than the twins—more soccer player than football lineman—with thick, dark hair and the most startling blue eyes. Caribbean blue. Glacier blue. Framed by long, thick lashes in a face of chiseled perfection.
Seriously. He’s beautiful in a turn-heads-while-walking-down-the-street sorta way. Almost a walking ironic monument to masculine beauty.
How could a girl not be swept up by that?
At first, I could scarcely believe a guy as hot as Tennyson was that into me. My roommates drooled and whispered behind his back how lucky I was. My sisters ogled him.
It was intensely flattering.
As a boyfriend, Tennyson was kind and sweet. Despite his good looks, he wasn’t hung up on himself. He was a decent, good guy. But the more he drew me into his world, the more I realized how fragmented he was.
His GUT is debilitating.
Tennyson senses the future emotions of those around him—intensely, completely—which makes living around people a daily challenge. Part of me still wondered how he managed to attend college for as long as he did. When we first met, his GUT was difficult but manageable. Over time, that changed. His GUT continued to strengthen and the constant emotional bombardment swamped him.
Apparently, I soothed his psyche. I’m a generally cheerful person. I don’t know why that is . . . I just am.
Eternally optimistic.
That’s how Tennyson described me.
His pocket-sunshine.
Tennyson needed me. Needed my steady emotions to keep him balanced. Needed to be around someone who didn’t add to his pain.
And it’s nice to be needed. Most of the time.
Then I met Branwell.
I had thought I loved Tennyson. And I did.
But it was nothing compared to the soul-shattering attraction I felt for Branwell.
Of course, I was immature and new to love, so it took me far too long to realize all this—that Tennyson’s need, though super flattering to my ego, was heavy. Exhausting.
I was his savior.
That’s a hard pedestal to maintain. No relationship can remain healthy when the parties involved are on such unequal footing. I couldn’t have a bad day, because that might cause Tennyson to flounder, sending him into a tailspin. And Tennyson’s dark days could be frighteningly dark. The responsibility was a millstone at times.
But when I was around Branwell, he had no expectations of me. I didn’t have to stay happy and positive 24/7.
I could breathe.
Branwell was the eye of a hurricane. A sea of calm. A grounding string that would let my kite fly as high as it dared.
The yin to my yang.
The dark to my light.
My balance. My completion.
I don’t know how else to describe it. I connected with him like no one before or since.
Not that he knew. Not that I could ever tell him.
I don’t think Tennyson ever understood what was happening. Eventually, I reached the point where I would push forward my affection for Branwell, knowing Tennyson would just feel the emotion, the love and devotion.
Of course, I could only live a lie like that for so long. Remaining in a relationship with the wrong D’Angelo brother was unfair to Tennyson. It was unfair to me.
We all deserved better than that.
“What’s on that ribbon around your neck?” Branwell’s voice brought me back to the present.
My head snapped up from the stitches I was sewing.
He stood in the doorway toweling his hair with his left hand. The ragged claw marks a striation of angry red lines down his right arm. Beard combed neat. His jeans a little damp on the right side but otherwise clean, hanging low on his hips. Socks on his feet.
But from the waist up . . .
Oh. My. Word.
My lungs simply forgot how to breathe properly, my entire body jolting in shock.
Was the man trying to destroy me?
He didn’t have a speck of clothing on from hips to the top of his head. Why would he? I was currently stitching his shirt.
Bare chest with a dusting of dark hair. Sharply defined musculature. A six-pack.
The image scorched my brain. Some things you simply know you’ll never forget. How had I not known he sported a MMA fighter body underneath all those Free People clothes?
“Lucy? You okay?” He tilted his head, concerned.
Right.
I forced my eyes upward from his washboard abs.
Stop drooling.
“Are you blushing?” Another question.
Which just made my face burn brighter.
“Why Lucy, I do believe you are blushing,” Branwell chuckled, a low, baffled sound. That laugh of his was a match to dry kindling, my cheeks fiery coals of red-hot flame.
He rubbed the back of his neck, turning his head in a move that could only be described as bashful.
Okay. The one thing hotter than a gorgeous, ripped guy? A gorgeous, ripped guy who was clueless as to said hotness.
I ducked my head and focused on the shirt in my lap. My zigzag was uneven and amateur-looking, but it would do the trick.
“Here, let me bandage your arm.” I lifted my head to see him still smirking. The punk.
I motione
d for him to sit on the couch. He crossed the room and perched on the cushion next to me, ensuring his naked chest didn’t touch anything.
His naked chest . . .
Clinical mode, I sternly reminded myself.
Methodically and in silence, I snipped a gauze pad, applied it to a scrape, ripped off a strip of paper tape and wrapped his arm.
He grinned down at me.
I swallowed.
“The necklace was a gift from Cat Lady.” I answered his earlier question, ignoring his obvious delight with my discomfort.
Stupid man.
“Ah.” His tone implied that he had put something together. “Didn’t you say she was on a spiritual retreat the night before Grace disappeared?”
“Yeah. She and Professor Ross came downstairs yesterday morning before I found Grace missing—”
“Wait. You just said they were gone.”
“They were. Apparently, they had just returned. Cat Lady, being religious and all, was concerned about defending against the evil eye and handed me the medallion.”
“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the necklace.
“Of course.”
I angled toward him, raising my chin.
Branwell paused and then leaned forward to better study the medallion without touching it. His body a wall of bare muscle mere millimeters away from mine.
My lungs seized.
I could feel his breath on my neck. Warm. Soft.
Keep it together, Lucy.
He smelled like Grace’s berry shampoo.
That shouldn’t have made me smile, but it did.
He would love Grace.
Which thought, fortunately, broke the spell he had cast on me.
Tears spiked instantly. The reality of the last two days came crashing back down.
Gracie Pie. She was gone.
What had happened to her?
Branwell sat back, instantly noting my distress.
“What’s wrong?” His eyebrows flew upward.
“Sorry, sorrysorrysorry,” I whispered, frantically reaching for a tissue to stem the flow. “J-just thinking about G-grace.”
“Luce, no, I’m the one to be sorry. She is what’s important here. This whole arm mess threw us off.” He motioned toward his nearly bandaged arm. “We’re going to find her.”
I nodded, swallowing hard and fast, trying to stem the tears before they moved from sloppy to ugly. Crying wasn’t going to find Grace.