Page 56 of Heart of Thieves

Nic leans on a bookshelf at the end of the aisle, arms crossed. His fedora is tipped over his brow, and in the meager light, shadows carve points out of his cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood.

“Oh, perfect,” I say, “a pompous ass. I was looking for one.”

He straightens, flashing a predator’s grin I’m already itching to punch. “What are you doing?”

“Baking a cake.”

“Oooh, snippy today, aren’t we?” Nic chuckles, turning to the nearby books and pulling one out, as though browsing at a shop.

I stare at him. There’s something . . . off.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“Why are you?” he returns the question without a glance, tugging out another tome.

“Research.”

“Maybe that’s my reason, too.”

I narrow my gaze. “Why did you close down the casino?”

“Seemed like a fun idea.”

His nonchalance has alarms blaring in my head. “Stop it.”

One corner of his mouth curls. “Stop what?”

“Acting like this.”

“Like a person looking at books?”

“No, like . . . not Nic.”

He shoves the book back into place and turns to face me, the grin pulling wide enough to show all his teeth. “You haven’t spent more than ten minutes at a time in my presence for five years, and you think you still know what I’m like?”

I stare at his eyes. Eyes I know better than my own because they were the ones I’d see when I’d awaken from nightmares as a child. The ones that would go soft when he would tell me bedtime stories. The ones that burned with irritation when I stole his things or ate the last biscuit on the plate.

These eyes now are guarded and cold and . . . perhaps faintly glowing blue around the edges?

My stomach twists.

“What’s wrong, little brother?” he asks.

“Don’t call me that,” I snap, though that’s what he’s called me as far back as I can remember. My outburst echoes along the cavernous walls, an eerie response to the deadly stillness of the library.

“Don’t shout,” he says sweetly. “You’ll get us kicked out of the temple.”

“I’ll do as I damn well please.”

His smile fades, but his stare is steady. “You always do.”

The words carry with them the weight of our entire childhood. Me disappointing everyone and him picking up the pieces.

“Don’t try to punish me with your accusations,” I growl. “I already paid my price a thousand times over.”

“Ah, of course, you, the little victim of the freedom bought for you with someone else’s obedience.”

“Freedom?” I nearly shout. “I was not free.”