Page 46 of Bound

Through heavy tears, her voice crackled in broken words. “Your brother. . . your brother isn't. . . Porter, he's gone.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Gripping her shoulders, I pushed her off my chest so I could look in her eyes. “What do you mean he's gone? Where is he?”

Sobbing uncontrollably, the water streamed down her lips as she tried to speak. Her sentences were all mangled, a mix of gasping for air, and finding her voice between shredded thoughts. “He. . . I don't know what happened. He was—Zander. . .” Swallowing hard, her eyes froze on mine. “He's dead, my baby is dead.” Falling back into my arms, she wilted in a pain that she should never have to experience.

Holding her close, I brushed my palm down her hair. “Shh,” I soothed, doing my best to calm her. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”

Her body trembled as she cried, her moans growing in volume as she lost herself to the unspeakable hurt of losing a child. My mother's legs began to shake, losing their strength to hold her up anymore.

Bracing her against my chest, I kept her from falling, refusing to let her drop to the ground as her knees grew weak, and her muscles began to shut down. Every ounce of her turned brittle and broken, crumbling into pieces before my eyes.

I felt for her, for what she was going through. No mother should ever have to experience that type of heartache.

The last time I saw my mother this distraught was the day I left. Her eyes were giant saucers, swirling with disappointment and regret. She screamed at me to get out, she begged me to stay and get help, she slapped my face and told me she never wanted to see me again.

That hurt, to see the pain I had caused her, it hit me in a way that I never expected. I never meant to disappoint her, I never set out to destroy her very existence.

She didn't raise a monster, I transformed into one.

But this, this was something entirely different.

My brother wasn't being held behind bars, he wasn't a phone call away, or a three hour drive. He was gone forever.

Damn it! Why didn't I come home sooner?!

Regret caved in around me, making me wish I had done things differently. But isn't that how life goes? You make a choice, one that you think will solve all your problems, only to see it wash your very existence out to sea.

I could barely breathe, suffocated by the harsh reality that nothing could mend this. I couldn't fix Zander, not now, not ever again. I couldn't take back what I had done or erase the time between us, and fill it with memories.

My mother had inevitably lost two sons.

No. I'm here, I'm back.

There were no tears in my eyes, they were as dry as the desert. I knew that most people would be inconsolable at a time like this, but I wasn't normal. Even if I tried to force myself to cry, it wouldn't work. I didn't have any tears to shed for my brother, there were none to give him.

That didn't mean I wasn't sorry he was gone, it didn't mean that I lacked empathy for what she was going through, and didn't feel some form of sadness that he was dead. What it did mean was all the anger I lived with finally had a function, it had a purpose.

Revenge was bittersweet. It was time for me to open Pandora's box and let the world know I was back with a vengeance.

If Marcos has anything to do with this, he's fucking dead.

My heart stopped, returning to beat with hatred and rage for whoever was responsible for taking my brother from this woman—from this family—from me.

I'm going to kill them all.

The sound of feet thudded behind her back, drawing my attention up. Lifting my head, I saw my stepfather standing in the doorway of the living room, holding a small glass of alcohol. In khaki pants and a button-up plaid shirt, he watched me with that same dead stare I had seen when I walked out that door a nine months ago.

You still haven't forgiven me, even after all this time.

Our eyes locked as the battle of testosterone fueled the air, bringing back all the angst I felt when I was around him as a kid.

Franco and I didn't get along, we never really had. My mother used to tell me that we butted heads because we were so much alike. I refused to think I was anything like that man. He wasn't my birth father, none of his blood flowed through my veins.

All he cared about was his alcohol and control. He treated my mother like a fucking slave, and me like I had been put here on earth to serve him.

Pushing herself to stand up straight, my mother smoothed her hair out, and cleared her throat. Pulling a small cloth from her pocket, she wiped her face dry.

I felt sorry for her, even more so now with the death of my brother. It was sad that even in this state, with all the grief she felt, she couldn't show it around my father.

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