I still keep my mouth shut. I can’t risk saying anything. And if I could, what would I say? As it stands, I can’t even explain my presence here to myself. I’m seeking comfort from the man I want to destroy, and the reason I need comfort is because someone is trying to keep me from destroying him.

It’s enough to make me giggle. Lander pulls away so he can see my face. But when he looks at me he can tell that my short burst of laughter wasn’t attached to any actual delight, more like an encroaching madness.

He wraps his arm around my shoulders and leads me to his front door, through the brightly lit lobby, and then up to his dimly lit apartment. I sit down on the couch, still not speaking. He walks to the bar, resting his hand on a bottle of brandy before shaking his head.

“I think tonight might call for something gentler,” he mutters.

He leaves the room, and for a few minutes I can hear cabinets being opened and closed in the kitchen and then finally the alarmist whistle of a kettle. When he comes back it’s with a cup of chamomile tea. I take it in both hands, warming them and allowing the steam to roll across my face as he stands over me.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks.

“I shouldn’t be here.”

He doesn’t respond right away and for a minute I think he’s not going to. But then Lander cuts the silence with three softly spoken words: “You belong here.”

I inhale a sharp breath and gaze out those floor-to-ceiling windows. “No,” I say as the lights of the city sparkle beneath us. “I belong down there, with both feet on the ground. I don’t think I was designed to be above it all.”

“Essentially we’re all primates, Bell. Our instinct will always be to climb.”

I laugh and bring my cup to my lips, taking some pleasure from how the hot tea stings my tongue and throat on the way down. “Are you a goal-oriented person, Lander?”

One corner of his mouth curls up. “You have no idea.”

“I am too. I can be . . . single-minded.”

He gestures to himself with his thumb. “Same,” he says, and takes a seat beside me.

“I’ve made so many mistakes,” I whisper. “I just keep screwing up over and over. Every time I think I’m on the right track, I’m confronted with a new challenge or twist that I just don’t know how to deal with and then I screw up again.”

“I believe that’s called life, Bell.”

“Well,” I say with a small smile, “it’s certainly called my life.” But then my smile fades. “How long have you hated your brother?”

“ ‘Hate’ is a strong word.”

“It is,” I acknowledge without bothering to amend it.