There's no walking away from your family, not after what you two have been through, flesh-bound chains coiled around each other, tighter with every shared scar and unspoken slight. Eric, older by years and a lifetime, is your only blood, the marrow of your bones, the hand that tightens and loosens. An unseen collar cinches at the tender flesh of your throat; when he jerks that leash, not a casual flick but a deliberate, measured pull, he's watching, always watching, to see if you bare your teeth, snap, or like some pitiful creature, expose your belly, trembling and fawning.

The butler greeted you in the foyer and reminded you of the time. Past curfew, you were home late.

You went upstairs and knocked lightly on the door of Eric's study. No trepidation yet—your driver had called ahead, a courtesy or a betrayal, depending on which way the wind blew through Eric's calm.

Eric: "Come in."