Page 10 of Dallas Rivals

Silas, the oldest, lives in New York with his wife, Lauren, and their boy, Julian. Their apartment’s some kind of eco-friendly fortress—solar panels, automated systems, all that. They barely gotta use their legs to move around.

Luca’s down in Miami with his wife, Emma, and their daughter, Mila. Same story—fully equipped, prepped like they’re expecting the end of the world any day now.

Then there’s Killian.

Single like me, living alone in a mansion up in the Oakland Hills. Spends more time on the road than he does in that house.

Not for the same reasons I do—at least, not that I know of.

Of all my brothers, Killian is the one I talk to the most. We check in with each other nearly every day, keeping that thread of connection alive despite the distance and all the differences in our lives. Earlier today, he called me while I was caught up in a meeting, so I let it go to voicemail. Now that I have a moment, I pick up my phone and dial his number. He answers right away, not even letting it ring twice before picking up. That’s just how it is with us—always ready to talk, always there for each other, no matter what’s going on.

“Hey, cowboy!” he yells through the speaker.

I roll my eyes. He’s been calling me that since we were kids, and it still grates on me.

“You called?” I ask, walking over to the big window. I rest my hand against the cold glass. The towel’s still tight around my waist. My eyes wander over the land outside.

“Yeah, man. Wanted to check on Lucien. Last time you mentioned him was, what—a month ago?”

My stomach tightens just hearing his name. I remember the night I came back from the hospital—nine p.m., bone tired and desperate. I’d called Kill and told him everything, unloaded on him like I hadn’t done in years.

“I don’t know,” I say, eyes fixed on Lucien’s house in the distance. From here, it looks small, tucked between the oaks. I can just make out Miss Saint-Clair’s van parked in front. I squint, trying to see more, but it’s no use. “Seems all right. At least, in his head.”

I grab the binoculars I always keep near the window—habit from watching the horses—and bring them to my eyes, balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear.

“Yeah, well,” Kill says, voice softer now, “I can’t imagine worse news than being told you’ll never walk again—especially for a man like him. Hell, for anyone.”

Through the binoculars, I spot Miss Saint-Clair trying to unload a damn bed—by herself.

“She’s lost her mind,” I mutter.

“Who?” Kill’s voice crackles through the phone.

“No one. I mean—nothing. Listen, I gotta go, I’ll call you later.”

“What? You just called me, Oli⁠—”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry. Eliza needs something. Bye.”

I hang up before he can say another word.

In record time, I pull on a pair of jeans and grab my jacket.

Crossing the kitchen, I catch Eliza giving me a look as I rush past.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” she asks.

“To help the clumsiest girl I’ve ever met,” I shoot back.

By the time I pull up in front of Lucien’s house, Miss Saint-Clair loses her grip on the damn bed and lets it drop. The crack of splintering wood echoes through the air.

Jesus. She’s a walking disaster.

I slam the door shut and stride toward her, hands tucked into my jacket pockets.

“Got anything else you wanna break?” I ask dryly.

She’s staring down at the busted frame, but when she looks up, those dark eyes hit me—soft, guilty, too human.