Lucian Bennett arrived with four suitcases, two shopping bags, and a grievance large enough to fill the entire Hayes townhouse.

“This is temporary,” he announced before Sebastian could say hello.

Sebastian stood in the doorway in rolled-up sleeves, holding a mug of black coffee. At twenty-five, he had somehow perfected the expression of a disappointed headmaster.

“Good morning to you, too.”

“Mom said three weeks.”

“Your mother said until the repairs are finished.”

“Three weeks,” Lucian repeated, wheeling a suitcase over Sebastian's polished floor.

His own apartment had flooded on Sunday. Evelyn Bennett was in Paris negotiating a gallery acquisition, and her best friend Margaret Hayes had volunteered her son's spare room without consulting either occupant.

Lucian had protested for forty-eight hours. His mother had answered every objection with the same infuriating sentence: Sebastian will take care of you.

He didn't need taking care of. He was twenty-one, nearly finished with his art degree, and perfectly capable of living independently.

Admittedly, his independence had previously included a cleaner, grocery delivery, and an assistant who handled his laundry.

Sebastian looked at the mountain of luggage. “Did you bring the apartment?”

“Did you bring your personality? I can't find it.”

“Upstairs. Second door on the left.”

Lucian hurried up, opened the assigned room, and stopped dead.

A bed. A desk. A wardrobe. One narrow window facing the neighbor's brick wall.

He marched back downstairs. “Absolutely not.”

Sebastian was already reading something on his tablet. “What?”

“Your room has a balcony.”

“Yes.”

“And a walk-in closet.”

“Also yes.”

“So we'll switch.”

“No.”

Lucian blinked. People usually negotiated when he used that tone. Sebastian never had.

“I need natural light for my paintings.”

“The spare room gets afternoon light.”

“I need space.”

“You have space.”

“I'll turn your study into my studio, then.”

“You won't.”

Lucian planted both hands on his hips. “Do you enjoy being impossible?”

“Not as much as you enjoy practicing.”

On the refrigerator, Sebastian had taped three rules: respect the rooms, clean up after yourself, and contribute to meals.

Lucian pulled the paper down. “You made house rules? For me?”

“For anyone living here.”

He tore it neatly in half.

Sebastian put down his tablet. “Lucian.”

That voice used to make eight-year-old Lucian hide behind Aunt Maggie's skirt. He hated that his stomach still tightened at the sound.

“What? Are you going to tell my mother?”

“Pick that up.”

“No.”

Lucian kicked a cushion across the room. Then, seeing Sebastian's calm expression, he shoved a stack of magazines off the coffee table.

“Enough.”

“Make me.”

Sebastian stood. Lucian lunged for his phone, intending to call Margaret and complain. Sebastian caught his wrist before he could grab it.

“Let go!”

“Stop throwing things.”

Lucian tried to pull away, then slapped Sebastian's shoulder with his free hand. “You're not my father!”

“No. And you're not seven anymore.”

That stung worse than it should have.

Sebastian lifted him across both arms. Lucian gave an outraged shriek and kicked the air.

“Put me down! Sebastian Hayes, I swear—”

Sebastian carried him to the sofa, sat, and settled him face-down across his lap. Lucian twisted furiously, more shocked than frightened.

A sharp swat landed on the seat of his trousers.

Lucian froze. “Did you just spank me?”

“You've made your point. Now stop wrecking my house.”

Another couple of swats followed when Lucian kicked and tried to reach the lamp. The indignity was unbearable. His eyes flooded before he could stop them.

“Stop!”

Sebastian stopped immediately and released him. Lucian scrambled upright, face burning, and backed away from the sofa.

Before dinner, Lucian tried calling Evelyn again. Her face appeared on the screen against a Paris hotel window, the Eiffel Tower a faint silhouette behind her.

“Sweetheart! Have you settled in?”

“Your best friend's son is a dictator.”

Evelyn sighed. “What did you do?”

“Why does everyone assume I did something?”

“Because I raised you.”

Lucian turned the camera toward the cramped guest room. Evelyn admired the fresh flowers on the desk and the clean sheets. Lucian hadn't noticed the flowers before.

“Sebastian bought those?” she asked.

“Probably to disguise the smell of his terrible personality.”

“Lucian.”

“Fine. We had a disagreement.”

Evelyn's expression grew serious. “If he treats you unfairly, tell me. But you must also respect his home. You're both adults now.”

Lucian picked at the seam of his sweater. “He thinks I'm still a child.”

“Then show him you aren't one.”

The call ended. Lucian sat on the bed, staring at the flowers. They were white peonies, the kind he'd loved since Margaret's garden parties.

He refused to feel grateful.

Later, while searching for a pan, he found Sebastian's kitchen arranged with infuriating precision. Knives lined up by size. Spices labeled. Even the tea bags occupied individual compartments.

Lucian took a photograph and sent it to Nolan.

HE'S A SERIAL KILLER WHO ORGANIZES BASIL.

Nolan replied: At least the basil is safe.

Lucian snorted despite himself. His anger was beginning to feel like a performance he couldn't stop giving.

He thought of Sebastian carrying him across the room, the humiliating moment on the sofa, and the way Sebastian had stopped when asked. Lucian still felt furious. He also felt embarrassed that he had lost control badly enough to smash someone else's belongings.

He picked up the magazines he'd scattered and stacked them on the coffee table. Nobody saw him do it. That made the small gesture easier.

When Sebastian passed the doorway, his gaze flicked toward the repaired stack. He said nothing, which somehow irritated Lucian more than a lecture would have.

Lucian returned to the stove and turned up the heat. If Sebastian wouldn't react to kindness, perhaps he'd react to salt.

“You're horrible,” he said, his voice cracking. “I hate you.”

Sebastian's jaw tightened. He looked at the tears gathering on Lucian's lashes, then away.

“I shouldn't have handled that like that,” he said stiffly. “But you cannot destroy my things.”

Lucian didn't want an apology delivered like a lecture. He wanted Sebastian to look as miserable as he felt.

Sebastian straightened his cuffs. “Dinner. Thirty minutes. Or we're having this conversation again.”

Lucian stared. “You're making me cook?”

“You tore up the chore schedule. Consider this your replacement.”

“I've never cooked steak.”

“Then read the instructions.”

Lucian stormed into the kitchen, still sniffling. His mother had called Sebastian responsible. She had neglected to mention tyrannical.

He found two expensive steaks in the refrigerator, watched half a cooking video, and turned the stove too high.

The first steak hissed. Smoke rose. Lucian fumbled with the extractor fan, then spotted a large box of sea salt.

He paused.

A slow, wicked smile spread across his face.

Sebastian wanted dinner? Sebastian would get dinner.

Lucian poured salt over the meat until the surface glittered white. He added more for good measure, then set the plate on the table with theatrical care.

“Your Majesty,” he said sweetly. “Dinner is served.”

Sebastian examined the steak. Lucian watched his knife descend, certain victory was seconds away.

Sebastian took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

Nothing.

Lucian leaned forward. “Well?”

“Interesting seasoning.”

“That's all?”

Sebastian cut another piece. “Sit down. You need to eat too.”

Lucian's confidence faltered. “I'm not hungry.”

“After all that work?”

He pushed Lucian's untouched plate toward him. Lucian glanced at the white crystals clinging to its edges and wished he had thought through his revenge.

Sebastian set down his fork. His gaze lingered on Lucian's swollen eyes.

“You still cry exactly like you did when you were seven.”

Lucian went cold.

Seven. The summer at the lake house. The day Sebastian had found him behind the boathouse with scraped knees and a broken toy boat.

He had assumed Sebastian had forgotten.

Apparently, Sebastian remembered everything.