With his right foot planted flat on the floor, Anthony lifts his right hip, using the momentum and position to flip them over, but with the way Ransom adjusted, they do a full toddler version of tumbling.

Both break apart for a split second and Anthony reaches up, gripping the glass he was drinking from.

“Ransom watch out!” I scream.

His hand comes up just in time to catch Anthony’s wrist and he slams his forehead into his.

They both manage to scramble to their feet, and this time, Anthony lands a punch across his brother’s face. Ransom’s head jerks to the side on impact, but he comes right back, swinging wildly with both hands, forcing his feet backward until his lower half hits a wooden chest.

“What the fuck is this?!” Ransom shouts. “What did you do?” His eyes slice to mine.

His gaze falls to my dress then, as if he’s only noticed I’m made-up, and his head tips the tiniest bit, small creases forming between his eyes. “Wait... it’s him? He’s the one who—” he cuts himself off, putting the pieces together.

Anthony takes advantage of his distracted state. He lifts his foot, kicking Ransom right in the stomach and he stumbles backward, hits the small table and the case on top of it crashes to the floor.

Hundreds of pearls spill over the floor. They roll in every direction, down the hall and the stairs, over the slatted railing, the hard pings echoing as they bounce along the first floor.

“Fuck,” he ground out. He squeezes his hair with his hands, his eyes clamped shut as he shakes his head, an angry growl slipping past him. “Fuck!”

In that moment, I know the answer to my question.

Anthony Blanca holds all we have in the palm of his hands, and he knows it. He’s known it for a while now, but Ransom had not a clue.

This wasn’t his plan.

I’m not a board piece in a game of Family Feud, at least not where he’s concerned.

My pulse leaps in my chest, deep beneath my ribs. It’s the part of me I swore, time and time again, didn’t work properly, yet I now know the truth.

It didn’t work because it had yet to be charged, but it beats wildly now, aches deeply for the boy in front of me and I don’t even know why.

That might be a lie.

It might be because I’m not sure where we go from here.

Needles prick in my throat and I think I whisper his name, but I can’t be sure as his head never lifts. He doesn’t step from the corner he’s backed himself into.

Anthony coughs, and my eyes fly his way.