Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

Bianca

Irefused to let myself be intimidated by Lion Court’s eerie majesty or its master. So, Monday morning, hours before I had to leave for my first day at a new school, I started my day. Walcott informed me that Tiernan was out, so I followed the stairs down to the basement to see if Ezra was there to give me my first lesson in defending myself. It was Henrik who offered though, his bald head beaded with sweat from his own workout, the eyeliner he wore smudged by the moisture. We started easy, learning how to make a proper fist and torque my hips to eke the most out of my small stature and strength.

After, I found Walcott and talked to him about picking up Brando’s epilepsy meds and his ketogenic meals. Apparently, the house employed a chef named Patsy, a large redheaded woman with jowls and a laugh like an opera singer. She agreed to Meatless Mondays and sustainably sourcing her ingredients, excited about the prospect of it, in fact. Walcott wasn’t as enthused when I asked if it would be possible to add solar panels to the roof or southern lawn. When he reluctantly agreed to look into it, I beamed, pressing a kiss to his marred cheek at the same time I pressed a folded list of further environmental recommendations into his limp hand.

When I left Walcott’s office, it was with a sense of accomplishment.

If this mausoleum of a house was going to be mine for the foreseeable future, I was going to make it a home.

When I swung through the kitchen on the way to the main hall to go up to wake Brando, I was startled by the sight that awaited me.

Brando sat on the island with his legs crossed, Iron Man beside him, a huge bowl in his lap that he stirred with a wooden spoon.

“Anca!” he cried on the tail end of his laughter. His arm arched wide, still clutching the wooden spoon so that some kind of batter flung from the end and splattered over the cabinets. “We’re making pancakes.”

I smiled at him automatically, but couldn’t pry my eyes from Tiernan at a messy stovetop with a flipper in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. It was clear he’d been roped into breakfast on his way to or from some business meeting because he wore one of those expensive black suits that perfectly skimmed every powerful inch of his frame. As a concession to the task at hand, he’d lost the suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves on his white dress shirt to reveal thickly corded forearms dusted in black hair and blacker tattoos.

My brain struggled to make sense of the cruel man in such a domestic setting and failed. He’d always been good to Brando, certainly kinder to him than he was with me, but this was new territory completely. Coupled with the knowledge Tilda had imparted yesterday about him being beaten as a child, I couldn’t stop the way the sight of him like that opened something up inside of me like a key in a lock. I shivered slightly, terrified of letting him in, but unable to help my burgeoning desire for exactly that.

Apparently, I was a masochist.

“He told me it’s his birthday,” Tiernan admitted with something like a grimace. “Apparently, it was the least I could do because I didn’t get him a present.”

When my eyes shot to Brando, his own were wide with faux innocence. He grinned at me, showing a large gap where he was still missing his right front tooth.

“Uh, yeah, well, it was,” he admitted shyly. “Four months ago.”

“Brando,” I admonished, but the scold held no weight because I was laughing at the look of shocked annoyance that flickered across Tiernan’s face. “You should absolutely not lie like that.”

“Well,” he reasoned, “I really wanted pancakes.”

Behind me, laughter erupted.

I looked over my shoulder, giggling too, to see Walcott and Patsy in the doorway, struggling to contain their mirth.

Tiernan scowled at them, which only made me laugh harder. I pressed a hand to my aching abs as I struggled to catch my breath. “Oh my gosh, that is too good.”

“I have no doubt who taught him how to use his charm like that,” Tiernan growled at me as he pressed the dirty pancake flipper into my chest, forcing me to grab it.

Melted remnants of the chocolate chips in the batter smeared across my new white sports bra. I choked on my laughter when Tiernan dipped his thumb in the mess and brought it to his mouth, sucking it off with his gaze hooked through my own.

Suddenly, I couldn’t remember what had been funny in the first place.

“See, Tiernan likes pancakes too,” Brando pointed out.

Dark delight moved through those peridot eyes as Tiernan sucked hard on his thumb, lips too pink and full. Unbidden, I imagined what they might look like suctioned around my nipple. If he would suck too hard, bite too harshly. If he’d leave pleasure like a wound.

“I’ll take over, Mr. M—”

“Yes,” he interrupted Patsy. “Please do.”

“You don’t want to make them with me?” Brando asked, his voice a sweet, high psalm.

Tiernan hesitated for just a beat, a tightening of his jaw, before he shook his head. “No, Brandon, I have work to do.”

We both watched as my little brother’s lower lip quivered before he bit down to hold it still. His eyes dropped into the bowl of remaining batter as he whispered, “Okay.”

My heart ached for him.

He’d lost his mother and his father and having me just wasn’t enough. He was a social, loving kid. He yearned for connection, especially in the wake of Aida’s death when we both felt cast adrift, isolated because of the simple fact that we had no one left to love us.

“I can help you, Brandy Boy,” I promised him, stepping in front of Tiernan deliberately before I walked over to my brother and bopped him on the nose. “I’ll even put in extra chocolate chips.”

Brando nodded, his curls veiling his face as he continued to stir the batter despondently. Behind me, the only signal that Tiernan had left was the brisk clip of his dress shoes over the slate floors. I wrapped my arms about around Brando, two fingers sliding gently against the pulse in his neck so I could count the beats. It helped dissipate the anger I felt at Tiernan for disappointing a little kid because he was too much of an asshole to take fifteen minutes for pancakes.

“I love you,” I said into his hair before pressing a kiss there.

I took the bowl from him gently and turned to make more pancakes. Silently, Walcott and Patsy came over to help me and set up plates for serving.

So no one was watching Brando.

“They don’t smell so good,” he murmured somewhat dazedly from behind me.

I was so mired in anger at Tiernan that I didn’t really hear him, cursing out our guardian instead.

If I’d been paying attention, I would have known.

Smelling something strange or bad was one of Brando’s warning symptoms.

A moment later there was an awful crash and sickening thud.

I spun around with my heart in my throat because I already knew what I would find.

Brandon had fallen off the island to the slate floors, his little body jerking wildly, his head already bleeding from the knock against the ground. Shards of crockery lay around his prone form like shrapnel, a piece cutting into his cheek each time he seized.

I was on my knees beside him in a nanosecond, the timer on my watch counting each second that he convulsed. Gently, I moved him onto his side, catching myself on a piece of porcelain as I brushed it out of the way.

Tiernan appeared in my line of vision, his face as grim as the Reaper’s.

“What can I do?”

I cradled Brando’s head gently on my thighs, bending to check the wound from his fall. It was a shallow cut, bleeding heavily as head wounds do, but not lethal.

“Clear the sharp pieces away from him so he doesn’t cut himself anymore,” I ordered.

Tiernan moved into action with cold efficiency, his cell tucked between his cheek and shoulder as he plucked shards off the ground. Pancake batter and blood stained his thousand-dollar suit pants, but he seemed unaffected. Patsy handed me a folded-up towel to use for his head, but Brando was already growing still and heavy, the seizure passing. I used the towel to staunch the blood flow from his head.

I always held my breath until he finally opened his eyes after an episode, air exploding in a sob from my lips as his lids fluttered and parted. His eyes were so blue, so vivid, it helped remind me that he was alive, that he would be okay.

“B-Bianca?” he slurred groggily, his gaze unfocused.

“Hush, I’m here, Brando,” I assured him, smoothing his pale hair back from his forehead. My hands were covered in blood, his and some of my own from slicing open my palm, but I didn’t care. “How do you feel, buddy?”

“Myheadhurts,” he continued to slur, but his eyes sharpened and he struggled to sit up.

I helped him, cradling his body between my legs. He rested against my chest, curling into me as he took a few deep breaths. I always tested his breathing, pulse, and mobility after a seizure to see if we had to go to the hospital or not.

“Hey,” Tiernan said, crouching in front of us. He hesitated before reaching out to rub a knuckle over Brando’s cheek. “You need to go to the hospital, kid?”

Brando shook his head, fisting my shirt in one hand as he pressed even closer. He was always sleepy and needy in the aftermath. Once I put him to bed, he would probably nap for hours.

“I timed it,” I explained to Tiernan. “It was under five minutes, which is the danger zone. As long as he can walk alright, he should be okay to stay home. I’m just worried about this cut…”

“I’ll call my private doctor,” he said immediately, already turning to his phone. “Ezra? Help Brandon and Bianca get upstairs.”

Ezra stepped out from the group that had gathered in the corner of the kitchen, watching us with varying degrees of concern. He offered a hand to Brando, who took it without question, getting up on weak knees to walk a few steps. He looked over his shoulder at me for validation that he didn’t have to go to the hospital, which he hated, and I sighed before nodding at him.

His smile was tremulous, but there. When I stood up, he lifted his arms so I would pick him up. He was getting too big, really, but he liked the physical contact after the trauma.

Ezra followed me out of the room and up the stairs to Brando’s bedroom. Walcott was already there turning down the bed with its new Spiderman sheets, a glass of water placed on the nightstand. I crawled into bed with Brando, mostly because he wouldn’t let me go. Walcott closed the curtains while Ezra lingered.

“I’m okay, Ez,” Brando said before a yawn overtook him. “But you can stay if you want.”

The huge man with hands bigger than Brando’s head hesitated, then took a seat in the large chair by the window.

“Anca,” Brando whispered, turning his entire body into mine, slinging a slim leg over my hips, his arm over my breasts to he could thread his fingers in the ends of my hair.

“I’m here,” I assured him, feeling next to tears but determined not to give in when he was still awake. “You don’t have to worry, I won’t let you go.”

“Promise?” He was half asleep already, but still clinging to me as if I might disappear at any second.

It made my throat burn, my heart flaming with sorrow that scorched up my insides. “Promise.”

“Mom and Dad left. Maybe you will, too.”

“Nah, I’d never leave without you. You’re stuck with me,” I said casually but the words were an oath I’d made the moment I held his tiny, pink and screaming body in my hands seven years ago. “It’s just you and me, buddy.”

“Maybe Ezra, too,” he mumbled, drifting quickly, his fingers loosening their grip on me. “And Walcott and Henrik if they want. Tiernan’s something different.”

“Different?” I croaked, loving the big heart of the little boy in my arms. Overwhelmed by his continued sense of optimism, his everlasting ability to love and accept everyone. I felt so jaded and unsure next to him.

“He chose us,” he said simply, and then seconds later, he was passed out in my arms.

I tucked my face into his hair, hiding my tears as they fell onto him. My strained breathing rattled the pieces of my broken heart around in my chest. Holding my brother, steeped in worry, I’d never felt so acutely alone. Aida hadn’t been much of a mother, but she had been a presence in our home, a failsafe if not a comfortable one. Lane hadn’t been much of a father, but he’d been like God, felt in spirit and venerated, someone to be lived up to.

Now it was just us.

My sweet Brando was protected and supported by me and me alone. The pressure of that responsibility crushed my lungs in an iron fist until I couldn’t breathe without pain.

“Bianca.”

I squeezed my eyes shut at the sound of that voice.

That sinner’s voice that coaxed impure thoughts to the surface of my mind.

In that moment, it was anger.

Here was a man who had dragged us from everything we’d known. Here was a man with his own purpose in taking us into his home. A man with no intention of loving us.

It was worse somehow, to know you were under the guardianship of a man who viewed you as a tool instead of a human, who didn’t beat you or neglect you, but watched you to learn you.

To learn your secrets.

Well, I wasn’t in the mood for him.

Not after he’d hurt Brando by refusing to make pancakes with him.

Not after I’d seen my little brother bleeding on the floor of a house that would never, no matter my efforts, be our home.

“Bianca,” said firmer this time.

A hand pressed into my leg over the covers, squeezing me gently.

“Look at me,” he ordered, the words silk over iron.

I sighed into Brando’s hair, wiping my tears in the strands before I lifted my head, staring at our miserable keeper boldly.

There was a look on his face that halted the stampede of wrath in my blood. It softened his mouth, creased the skin between his brows, and made those eerie green eyes glow like algae. It was a look of guilt and tenderness, utterly incongruous on his harsh, strong-featured face.

“Dr. Crown will be here within the next forty minutes. He’s driving into Bishop’s Landing from New York. He’s the best I know, and he’ll be able to give us an assessment of Brandon’s condition.”

“He has epilepsy that presents with grand mal seizures.” My voice was oddly breathless, torn apart by the sorrow savaging my innards. “He was diagnosed when he was two years old.”

“I don’t know much about the condition, but I was under the impression it could be treated,” he ventured.

“If you have access to the right doctors and the money to pay them. Even then, depending on the type and severity, it can be incurable.”

Tiernan nodded, his gaze fixed on Brando. I watched as his jaw worked, teeth grinding. Despite the tension in his body, his eyes were so soft as they looked at my brother. I didn’t want to see that gentleness. I couldn’t afford to.

Why was it that someone could act in a million horrible ways, but a small collection of good moments could make them seem redeemable?

“I’ve never seen something like that,” he admitted quietly. “A long time ago, someone I knew overdosed. I watched her seize, but it was nothing like that. He’s just a kid.”

I held Brando closer, wrapping my hand around his neck so my fingers rested on his steady, beautiful pulse.

“I’ve seen it countless times, but it never gets any easier. The helplessness…it’s just not something you can get used to,” I admitted.

“Yes. I am not used to feeling that way,” he admitted, as if I’d be surprised by the fact the ruthless billionaire never felt powerless in his entire life of privilege. “But that was…unpleasant to say the least.”

There was silence then, because I didn’t know how to respond to Tiernan like this. I’d never met this man, not even at my mother’s funeral, not when he should have been kind but wasn’t.

“You like kids,” I hazarded a guess.

His lips thinned into a pale line, but he nodded tersely, sitting stiffly on the edge of Brando’s bed like he was suddenly aware he didn’t want to be there.

“Dr. Crown will be here to stitch him up and check him out, but if we need to do further testing, we will.”

“It’s expensive,” I warned, because I’d been researching compulsively for years, wishing we had the money to pay for anything more than halfway decent drugs.

Wishing Aida had saved some of Dad’s money for a rainy day instead of spending it on lingerie and sweet perfumes.

“Lucky for you, I know good doctors and I have the means to pay for them,” he said superiorly.

“What’s the catch?” I demanded, irritated that this cruel man would be Brando’s savior and not me. It was irrational and so childish. I should just be grateful, just feel blessed. But it rankled to know that Tiernan could do this for us without even blinking an eye, without even caring about us that much, if at all.

He studied me with those predator’s eyes, that king’s arrogance on his well-bred features. I wanted to punch him and hug him in equal measure.

“There is a ball coming up, I want to introduce you to society there.”

“That’s it?” I said, after waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“That’s it.”

I glared at him, trying to read beneath his skin and failing. Usually, I was a good judge of character, but at every opportunity, Tiernan stymied me. I hated it, but I was also unhealthily intrigued by his many mysteries.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“I’m not going to school today,” I pressed, still waspish because he was being too nice, too reasonable and it was making my head throb and my heart pound. “I’m staying with Brando.”

He gave me a condescending look. “I’ve already called the headmaster. You’ll start tomorrow.” He stood up then, all-business and cold impartiality once more. “I won’t have you using Brando’s illness as an excuse to slack off, though. I expect you to get straight As and exhibit exemplary behavior if you want to remain in this house.”

“If you kick me out, I’ll take Brando with me,” I threatened mildly as he turned away, but fear saturated my chest like battery acid.

“No. You won’t,” he said simply on the way out the door, and even though it wasn’t the first time he’d threatened me, it was definitely the most terrifying.

I held Brando for a long time, questioning everything—was Tiernan a hero or a villain, this house a cage or a home, my life over before it had even started or filled with new opportunity—until I fell into a fitful, confused sleep next to him. I dreamt of the reaper coming to get me, only he offered me a rose instead of death, and when I woke up, someone had left a new Hulk action figure on Brando’s bedside table.

There was a note scrawled on expensive paper in slightly uneven script.

Brando,

What do you think the Hulk, Deadpool, Jessica Jones, and Captain Marvel have in common?

You’re all incredible individuals destined for great things despite the poor cards life has dealt you. We have no doubt you’ll achieve great things just like your favorite superheroes. Adversity only made them stronger and wiser, as it will with you.

From The Gentlemen of Lion Court

That night Henrik, Ezra, and Walcott turned the dusty front parlor, the only room with a television in the entire mansion, into a movie theater for Brando and declared a Marvel movie marathon.

Brando, still sluggish but much recovered after a checkup and stitch-up by Dr. Crown, was over the moon. Happier than I’d ever seen him as he sat on the velvet couch tucked into Ezra’s hulking body, Walcott on the other side of him holding the popcorn they shared. Henrik sat in a chair by himself, but he was the most vocal, making everyone laugh with his commentary.

I sat on the floor at Brando’s feet because I needed the space so they wouldn’t see the tears that haunted my eyes. So they wouldn’t know that this was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for Brando.

When Walcott leaned down to offer me popcorn, I whispered thickly, “Thank you for this, it was a great idea.”

“You should thank the boss,” he replied, squeezing my shoulder. “It was his.”

Something gunked up my chest, made my heart beat too slow and my breath too shallow. I spent the rest of the night waiting for Tiernan to show his face, maybe even join us.

But he never did.

I was as grateful for his absence as I was oddly despondent over it.

And that freaking terrified me.

When I finally slept after staring at the ceiling for hours thinking of the man I’d been so sure was a monster, I had nightmares sandwiched between my dreams.