One week after Dashiell left, Leander finally emerged from his room.
He looked terrible—hollow-eyed, unshaven, like he'd aged ten years. But he was moving better. The anger, it seemed, had given him strength.
Liora was in the kitchen when he found her.
"We need to talk," he said.
"Of course. Anything. I'm so sorry, Leander—"
He held up a hand. "I don't want apologies. I want answers."
They sat at the kitchen table, the morning sun cruel in its cheerfulness.
"How long?" Leander asked. "How long were you sleeping with my brother?"
Liora's hands twisted in her lap. "It started right after the accident. He offered to pay for your surgery if I—"
"If you f****d him."
"Yes."
Leander's jaw clenched. "And you agreed."
"I didn't have a choice. We didn't have the money. Your life depended
