I blink back the panicked tears that burn my eyes, sitting awkwardly on the bed and holding on to the photo like it’s a fucking lifeline.
He lets me sit in silence for a little while as I drag in shuddering breaths and force my heart rate to return to normal. But he doesn’t take his eyes off me, and when I’m calmer, he cocks his head lightly, his gaze flicking down to the picture in my hand.
“Are those people you know?”
His voice is soft. Gentle, even. But I don’t have to know this man well to know that I don’t really have much choice about answering. He may never raise his voice above the level it’s at now, but he won’t stop asking until he gets an answer.
“It’s me.” I swallow hard, a lump tightening my throat. “And my brother.”
Marcus’s thick dark brows jerk upward, and I know I’ve surprised him.
It makes sense. If he’s been stalking me for over two years, I can’t imagine he hasn’t also done at least a cursory internet search for information about me in all that time—if not a whole lot more than that.
And none of those searches would’ve mentioned anything about a brother.
I know. I’ve tried.
“What’s his name?” Marcus asks. He leans toward me, his tanned skin shining in the lamp light.
I drag in a breath. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“We were separated when we were really little. He’s two years younger than me, I think, but I don’t even remember his name. Some fucking wires got crossed somewhere, and there’s no record of him in the system. None that I’ve been able to find, anyway.”
The words feel strange on my tongue. I haven’t told another living soul about this in years. I look at the faded photograph almost daily, but I haven’t spoken of my brother in years.
“I searched more when I was younger,” I say quietly, my gaze dropping to the rumpled sheets on the bed beneath me. “When the few memories I had were fresher. When I still thought I had a chance of finding him.”
A girl I knew from foster care gave me the photo when I was eleven. She was older than me, and she insisted that the little boy in the picture was my brother, claiming she remembered us from a halfway house we’d all been in for a few months. She couldn’t tell me much else, not even his name, but she was adamant about the fact that we were siblings.
When I was in my early teens, before my life careened off the rails almost entirely, I did everything in my limited power to find my brother.
Back when I still believed in miracles.
Tears sting my eyes, and I blink rapidly, sucking in a deep breath and holding it as I fight down my emotions. Talking about this with Marcus makes me feel vulnerable, exposed, and raw.
How does he manage to keep reaching inside my soul like this?
How does he pull things out of me that’ve been buried for so long I’ve almost forgotten them?
“It’s stupid.” I shake my head, forcing a quiet laugh as I roll my eyes. “I have no idea if it’s even fucking true. A girl from foster care told me this whole story about how he was my brother, but for all I know, she was messing with me. Jerking me around just because she could.” I lift the picture for emphasis. “This could be me and some random kid. Or, hell, maybe it’s not even me either. Maybe I’ve been carrying around a picture of two complete strangers.”
Marcus’s brows pull together thoughtfully. He kneels on the bed in front of me, completely unabashed by his nudity. I’m still naked as a fucking jaybird too, but I find that I don’t really care either.
There are too many other emotions crashing around in my chest for embarrassment over my tits hanging out to be one of them.
“May I see?” He holds his hand out, his gaze flicking up to meet mine.
I blink in surprise. This is the first time since I’ve met him that I’ve ever heard Marcus Constantine ask for anything.
He takes.
He demands.
He barges.
He doesn’t ask.