The Brothers Hawthorne Gönderileri
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Grayson brought his eyes to hers and didn’t speak until he was certain that she wouldn’t look away again. “We do that,” he told her quietly. “Survive.”
“Avery gave him a look, one of those very Avery expressions that was worth a thousand words. In this case, her eyes said, I’m sorry you’re in pain. The set of her mouth said, You should have called me. The delicate line of her jaw said, You continue to be one of the most infuriating men on the planet.”
“I don’t want to break again.” Grayson could admit that to them now.
“Pretend your heart is a bone,” Xander advised. “When has a broken bone ever slowed a Hawthorne down? Give it time, and a fracture just heals stronger.”
“Grayson.” Green eyes met Grayson’s ice-blue ones. “I dare you to admit that you’re not okay.”
He wasn’t. Of course he wasn’t. But a Hawthorne didn’t just admit such things—especially this Hawthorne.
And Xander had successfully built a Rube Goldberg machine the purpose of which was smacking his own ass.
“This is a safe place,” Xander told him encouragingly. “Unless you’re my ass.”
“He looked at her eyes. There were rings of colors there, more shades of brown and gold and green than plain ‘hazel’ eyes had a right to.”
“Luckily, thanks to Grayson, Jameson had plenty of practice at ignoring orders.”
“More valuable than secrets,” he continued. The ability to say nothing, to keep those secrets. Silence. “And this”—Jameson nodded toward the silver chest—“isn’t just a box. It’s a music box. The music plays, the ballerina turns. Except this time, no music. Silence.”
“Every time he let himself care about someone, he lost them.”
“He’d failed to go to Avery when his father’s bomb had nearly killed her, and he’d lost her to his brother.”