I gave myself a sound mental slap. I had to stop torturing myself with thoughts of him. It fucking maimed too much, but unbidden, his voice haunted my mind, his words gruff with sexual need.

Howl for me. Come undone. I’ll put you back together.

My knees buckled, and I choked back a sob as I slid into the chair. I hadn’t accepted the idea that he was gone. I didn’t feel it in my heart, and like a dope addict clamoring for another fix, I clung to the frayed thread of hope that he was alive and looking for me.

Zach either didn’t care about my rocky emotional state, or he didn’t notice. He turned his attention to the cupboards and chose two cans of soup. As he prepared our food, he never quite turned his back on me. This was my brother, a guy I’d shared a house with for twelve years, which meant he knew me too well, knew what buttons to push, what words to use as weapons. He’d be stupid to let his guard down for a second.

I might have a sick attachment to him, but I despised him too. And I’d never felt so torn. Love for a brother, and hate for a twisted, obsessive…I didn’t even know what to call him. The term lover came to mind, but that wasn’t right either. He’d fucked me. A lot. And I’d let him.

Maybe if I’d fought harder, Rafe would still be alive.

My stomach roiled with renewed self-loathing, and when he carried two bowls of steaming soup to the table, I couldn’t fathom forcing the liquid down my throat. His gaze lifted and clashed with mine. I looked away, fearful my thoughts were plastered all over my face. He rounded the table, and his fingers brushed my cheek, making me flinch.

“I’m sorry I hit you.”

He was always sorry, yet it never stopped him from doing it again. I edged away from his touch. Even the feather-like caress of his fingers against my cheekbone hurt.

“Don’t pull away from me.” He grabbed a fist full of hair and jerked my head forward. “I’m trying to apologize, Lex, but fuck, you sure know how to piss me off.”

“It’s not hard.” I yanked violently from his grasp. The cost of freeing myself remained in his fist—several clumps of my hair. “You go off on the smallest things. Ever hear of anger management?” Or a cell for the criminally insane.

“Ever hear of the words shut up?” He stomped across the room and began rifling through drawers. As he busied himself with his frantic search for whatever he was looking for, my attention veered to the living room where the front door beckoned just beyond.