Page 122 of Powerhouse: Boxed Set
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.”
