I wince as she peels off a Band-Aid like she doesn’t know how much it hurts when it’s done that slowly. “Nothing major. Please, just stop.”
“Honey, you’re mumbling again. Speak up.” She touches the wound, applying too much pressure again. It’s like she wants to hurt me while disguising it as caring about me. Maybe this is why I’m so fucked up. My mom isn’t any better.
I yelp and jump out of my seat, my elbow and knees knocking against the chair, counter, and Mom, who yells like I just stabbed her. The metal spoon in my bowl clatters onto the onyx-marble counter, flicking milk and cereal onto it.
“That didn’t hurt, Dahlia,” Mom chides, and chases me around the kitchen.
I duck past her and dash to the other side of the counter, holding my hands up, palms out to keep her at bay. “Why do you need to touch it? And with no gloves or at least freshly washed hands. It’ll get an infection now.”
Mom rolls her eyes. “It won’t get infected. I was checking if there’s puss.”
I shake my head. “I told you, I’m fine.”
“Dahlia, I need you to use your voice and speak up. I’m sickof you mumbling!”
“She said she’s fine,” Jaxon says. “You need to listen instead of opening your mouth just to hear yourself talk.”
I suck in a breath and swing my gaze to the wide doorway leading into the kitchen. Jaxon walks into the room, his lips pulled down in a frown as he glares at my mom with vitriol.
Mom softens as she looks at my brother, even though he insulted her. It’s wild how she changes when around him. “Do you know anything about this?”
Jaxon crosses the room, plucks a sugary marshmallow from my cereal bowl, and pops it into his mouth. He steps in front of me, acting as a barrier between my mother and me.
“Like you care?” Jaxon says, and slips his hands into his pockets.
Mom touches her throat, her eyes shining with forced tears. “You’re saying that I don’t care about my daughter? I gave birth to her!”
Jaxon leans into Mom’s personal bubble, and her lips part like she expects him to kiss her.
“You think giving birth to someone automatically means you care about them?” He leans back, and it’s hard to miss Mom’s disappointment when he didn’t do more. “Let me worry about my sister, and you worry about my father’s wallet.”
I stop breathing, and I prepare myself for an all-out argument. Mom won’t put up with that—especially from me. All the fight in her leaves. She huffs, turns on her heels, and storms out of the room. Of course she does. She doesn’t want to argue with Jaxon when he has anger issues, but she’s okay with crossing every line and boundary with me.
Jaxon turns to me, and I slowly expel the air from my burning lungs after holding my breath for who knows how long. He looks me over, assessing my face with a more clinical eye than the possessive look he had not even thirty minutes ago when we were upstairs.
He cups my cheek. His thumb brushes against my skin in a whisper-soft caress. “How are you feeling?”
I shift my weight on my legs and sink my front teeth into my bottom lip for a moment to distract myself from his touch. “Like crap,” I say after a moment. “Everything hurts. What about you?”
His stroke freezes for a moment before he continues the gentle touch. “I can give you something for the pain.”
“Like what?” I can’t stop myself as I lean into his caress, and my hands creep up to touch him. My palms hover an inch away from his chest.
The corners of Jaxon’s lips tilt up like he’s just won a battle. He rubs his thumb over my bottom lip. “Follow me.”
He drops his arm and walks out of the kitchen. I wait for a moment, swallowing my nerves because I know he’s most likely taking me back to his bedroom.
And I don’t think I can fight this any longer.
Jaxon closes his bedroom door behind me and locks it.
My stomach flips, and I shift my weight as he crosses the room and sits on the edge of his four-poster bed, pats the space next to him, and waits.
“I don’t know how you’ll react to taking a hit off a joint, so I have a better idea,” he explains when I hesitate. He pulls the joint out of his pocket, along with a lighter.
I take a small step toward him, then pause. I don’t know if this is a good idea. Dad lost his shit when he smelled weed in Jaxon’s bedroom when we were in high school. He brought Jaxon to his office, and I heard the beating—which is nothing new, but it’s still terrible that he did that to Jaxon.
He lights the end of the joint and puffs it until large plumes of smoke roll out of his nose and mouth. He sucks more of the skunk plant into his lungs and holds it for a moment before he blows it out.
