Our Home Our Secret

Andre's pov ​The polished marble floor of Henry’s foyer was beautiful, sterile, and cold. I hugged my duffel bag—the last remnant of the chaotic, lived-in warmth of my father James’s house—and tried to plaster on a brave face. It had been six months since Dad’s accident, and four days since my mother, Sarah, had married Henry, Zakk and Zane's father. ​"Isn't it marvelous, Andre?" Mom chirped, her voice too bright. She was already radiating Henry’s happy, settled energy. ​I just nodded, focusing on the empty staircase. Henry had explained that his sons, the twenty-seven-year-old twins, were away on business and would be back later today. Twenty-seven. I was twenty-one. The age gap was a relief; I could maintain a polite, distant distance from them. ​I went upstairs, picked the room with the best lighting, and started unpacking. The room was blandly tasteful, and I intended to keep it that way. I was here temporarily, a politely enduring guest in my mother's new life. ​I was in the middle of pinning up a tiny postcard of an abstract landscape when the house changed. ​It didn't get noisy; it got heavy. ​A low thud vibrated through the floor, followed by the sound of two doors slamming shut outside. Then, two deep voices—nearly identical in tone—muffled in the hallway below. The air in my room, which had been clean and quiet, suddenly felt thick and strange. ​I recognized the sensation, though I couldn't place it. It was a dizzying mix of electricity and disorientation, like stepping onto a moving ferry. I suddenly felt breathless, restless, and deeply, urgently exposed. ​I decided to be polite. I walked out of my room and leaned over the banister, watching as Henry led two men into the entrance hall. ​They were identical. Tall, broad-shouldered, with identical dark hair and rugged, tired faces. They both exuded an easy, powerful confidence that seemed to dwarf the space. ​My heart immediately started a violent, panicked drumming. It wasn't simple attraction; it was an overwhelming, terrifying physical pull. It was a sense of recognition so profound it bypassed my memory and went straight to the core of my soul. ​No. I don't know them. I mentally slammed a wall up, fighting the dizzying impulse to sprint down the stairs and throw myself at them. ​Henry beamed. "Zakk, Zane, this is Andre, Sarah's daughter." ​The twin on the left, Zakk, looked up first. His eyes, dark brown and intense, scanned me from head to toe. There was no greeting, just a cool, assessing hunger. I quickly averted my gaze. ​The twin on the right, Zane, spoke first, his voice a low, rough rumble. "It's a pleasure, Andre." ​His voice was the match that finally lit the fuse of memory. The bass of the club. The whispered heat. The possessive groan. ​I had kissed one of them. ​Six months ago, before Dad died, I had been reckless and drunk at a downtown club and shared a devastating, anonymous kiss with a stranger. It was Zane. Or maybe Zakk. The scent—a deep, earthy blend of cedar and rain—was emanating from both of them, confusing the memory. ​It didn't matter which one. They were my new, much-older step-brothers. ​I managed to choke out a barely audible "Hello," and fled back into the safety of my room before Henry could call me down. ​I slammed the door, leaning against it, battling the rising tide of sheer panic. ​Step-brothers. Step-brothers. Step-brothers. The mental mantra was the only thing preventing me from acting on the impossible, terrifying connection that made my hands shake and my skin burn. ​I had to avoid them. I had to build a fortress of politeness and distance. This dizzying, primal attraction to my mother's new step-sons was a terrifying secret, and I would sooner jump out the window than admit to the truth of this overwhelming, magnetic pull. ​They were trouble, and they smelled like fate. And I had to stay as far away from them as possible.