once more tensing his muscles to battle-readiness. He was going to kill him, Vance thought, surging forward as his fingers again curled into fists. He was going to knock the bastard’s head from his shoulders and—
No.
God, no, he decided, coming to a sudden halt. That reaction would only prove he cared a whit about the betrayal. No way would he give the guy the satisfaction. So chill, he told himself. Be chill.
Forcing a second long breath into his tight chest, he allowed himself another moment to calm. Then he mounted the stairs from the sand and confronted the man leaning against the deck railing.
“What the hell do you want?” he demanded of his brother. Because being chill didn’t mean being polite.
Fucking Perfect Fitz stared at him in silence. His chiseled features hadn’t changed since Vance had seen him last. He still looked as if he’d been born with a label reading Most Likely to Succeed.
“You were wounded,” he finally said. Running his hand over the smooth layers of his nut-brown hair, he cleared his throat. “You were really hurt.”
Vance ignored the comment. “How did you find me?” he asked, then made a disgusted sound as the obvious answer presented itself. “I’m going to kick Baxter’s ass.”
Fitz shook his head. “Not Bax— Wait, Bax knows?”
Vance pressed his lips together.
“It was Addison,” his brother said, crossing his arms over his chest. “She told her mother where and with whom she was staying. I guess Mrs. March missed the memo that it was a big secret you were hiding out here at the beach, a mere hour away from your family home, and injured to boot.”
“I’m not injured.” He was never going to admit to Fucking Perfect Fitz that he’d been hurt by anything...or anyone. “I’m fine.”
Fitz was silent another long beat, just staring at Vance as if assessing that for himself.
Impatient with the examination, Vance huffed out a breath. He didn’t know how long he could keep his temper in check, so this show had better get on the road. “You never answered the question. What do you want?”
“Go visit Mom, V.T.”
He found the use of the old nickname his brother had coined—V.T. for Vance Thomas—rankled as much as the order. But he stayed silent.
Fitz sighed. “She’s upset.”
“And Dad?” The question slipped out before Vance could haul it back. Then he shook his head. “Don’t bothering answering. I’m disappointing him. What else is new?”
Fitz pushed away from the railing to stand at his full height, an inch and a half less than Vance’s. “Do you know what it’s like for them—for us—when you’re in Afghanistan? It was bad enough the first round, after you enlisted—”
“I had no choice this time, you get that, right? They called me up, I had to go.”
Fitz ignored the point. “You should have told Mom in person that you had to return—and then that you were back in California, safe. For God’s sake, you should have let her know you’d been wounded.”
“Yeah, because that would have eased her mind,” Vance scoffed.
His brother shook his head in obvious frustration. “You forget she’s accustomed to seeing you banged up.”
That was the thing with family. Their ammo never ran out, making them the most formidable of combatants. Sure, Vance had once been young and stupid, but man, didn’t Fitz see how it had been? His brother had done everything so older son–ideal that a guy had needed to carve out a different place for himself.
Or maybe he’d just been an immature idiot.
The thoughts only further frayed the tether on his anger. “I don’t want to be having this conversation with you, Fitz.”
The ambient lights around the deck clicked on, activated by the deepening darkness. In their glow, Vance saw an unfamiliar, uncertain expression cross his brother’s face. “Look, V.T., about—”
“We’re done talking.” A few minutes more and he’d lose it. Hell, he was itching to deck his brother and he’d do so without a qualm if it wouldn’t reveal how close to the bone Fitz’s betrayal had cut.
“We’re going to have to clear the air,” Fitz started again. “We’re family—”
“No,” he answered, his voice turning sharp. “We’re not. Not anymore.”
“Vance.”
Just his name in that censuring, self-righteous tone unleashed his temper. “That’s it,” he bit out, moving forward. “That’s it.”
One hand was reaching for the collar of his brother’s shirt and his other arm was drawing back for the first punch when a tipsy female voice called up from the sand. “Va-ance,” it sang. “I talked to Addy and we both