Page 121 of Tragic (Lark Cove 3)

He lifted his eyes, and I staggered back an inch. Because the man in front of me was not my brother.

This was not the carefree, fun-loving young man who’d come into my shop and keep me company while I worked. This wasn’t the cocky, charismatic man who’d charm all the ladies whenever we were out for beers at a local bar. This wasn’t the boy who’d come home from school each day with a new joke for the dinner table.

This was not my brother.

This was a shrunken version of the boy I’d tried to raise into a good man.

Isaiah’s frame, which had always been leaner than my own, had withered. His jeans, probably the ones he’d worn to prison, now hung from his hips. His black Nike hoodie was baggier on his shoulders than it had been when I’d given it to him as a birthday present five years ago. He’d worn it so often back then that the color had faded to a dark gray.

His hands were shoved in his jeans pockets, and his shoulders were hitched up to his ears. His hair, which he’d always worn longer to be like mine, was now sheared short. Behind his ear, a black tattoo trailed down his neck.

But it was his eyes that had changed the most. They were dead. Completely void of anything but pain and loneliness.

My hands unfisted. One lifted toward his shoulder, ready to set it there before assuring him he’d be all right. Habit screamed for me to comfort him. But I dropped my hand back to my side.

He’s a killer.

I wouldn’t let his starved frame or hollowed cheeks make me forget who he really was.

He was a killer.

“You took my daughter. You owe me two more years for the ones she never got to live.”

Isaiah nodded, tears welling in his eyes.

Those tears made me hate him even more.

In a flash, I raised my fist and plowed it into his face. I felt a bone in his nose crack under my knuckles before I heard it.

“Kaine!” Mom screamed and tried to push past me to Isaiah.

“Shit,” he cursed as his hands went to his nose to catch the blood. He shuffled a few steps backward.

“Fuck you.” I closed in on him again, unwilling to let him escape. He’d earned that punch. And the one I threw next that sent him onto his ass.

I bent down and gripped the collar of his sweatshirt and hauled him up to his feet. With one hand, I held him up while the other pummeled into his cheek.

“Kaine! Stop!” Mom cried. “Please, stop!”

She pulled at my elbow again, jerking as hard as she could. But I was solid and unmoving. The rage I’d had for so long was loose, thirsty for more blood.

I shrugged Mom off, blocking her with my back, then hit Isaiah again. He stumbled on the icy ground, his arms flailing sideways to get his balance. But with my grip on his sweatshirt, he couldn’t fall.

His nose was bleeding, and I’d opened up his cheek. An eyebrow was split in two and the blood was seeping into his eye. But he didn’t make a move to fight back. He just looked at me with more of those fucking tears.

He looked at me and begged me to keep hitting.

I raised my fist again, ready to punish him over and over again until I didn’t have to see the pain in his eyes. Until some of the pain in my heart ebbed. But before I could drive my knuckles into his skin, a sound broke through the blood rushing in my ears.

“Kaine.” It wasn’t Mom’s voice.

I lowered my fist, glancing over my shoulder.

And there it was. The calm.

Piper stepped closer and slid her hand up my arm, pulling it down and away from Isaiah’s face. “Let him go.”

The grip I had on Isaiah’s sweatshirt released immediately.