Secret Relationship with my Brother’s Right-Hand Man

“All right, enough. Stop crying. I’ll put something on it.”

Dominic’s voice softened as he brushed my hair back, his hand warm against my head in that same careless kind of affection he’d always given me—like it cost him nothing.

He stood and crossed to the wall cabinet, unlocking it with a quiet click. Inside sat a compact medical kit—nothing official, just the kind of supplies men in our world kept for injuries that couldn’t be brought to hospitals.

“Honestly,” he muttered, half amused, “you’re not a kid anymore, Celeste Whitestone. And a small burn has you tearing up like this? What would you do without me?”

I didn’t answer.

I stared at the raw mark on my wrist—angry, red, throbbing. The ointment hadn’t even touched it yet, but it already felt deeper than skin. Like something meant to stay.

Seven years.

Seven years of being taken care of, shielded, kept close.

What would I do without him?

The thought should’ve comforted me.

It didn’t.

Quietly, I answered myself.

I’d learn.

Because Dominic… I don’t want this anymore. Not this version of you. Not this warmth that only shows up when it’s convenient.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

The city lights bled through the curtains, pale and restless. I woke more than once, unease sitting heavy in my chest like something waiting to happen.

Just before dawn, my door opened.

Dominic didn’t knock.

He never did.

He walked in like he owned the space—like he always had—and grabbed my wrist, pulling me upright.

“Up,” he said lightly.

I groaned, trying to pull back. “It’s still dark…”

He only chuckled and leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to my lips like it was nothing.

Like it was routine.

My breath caught.

My body reacted before my mind did—I almost struck him.

Almost.

When he pulled away, he looked entirely too satisfied with himself.

“Awake now?” he said.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, irritation sharp in my chest. “It’s my rest day. Let me sleep.”

“You had a fever all night,” he replied, already turning away to grab his coat. “You’re coming with me. I’m having you checked.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re coming.”

And that was the end of it.

So I went.

—

The private clinic sat behind one of our front businesses—clean, quiet, discreet. The kind of place that treated gunshot wounds without asking questions.

The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and expensive silence.

And then—

I saw her.

Adeline.

She stood near the hallway corner, one hand braced against the wall, her weight uneven like she was about to fall.

I barely had time to process it.

Dominic was already moving.

The hand that had been holding mine slipped away without hesitation.

Three quick strides—and he caught her.

“Adeline,” his voice changed instantly—tight, focused. “What happened?”

She looked up at him… then past him.

At me.

“It’s nothing serious,” she said softly, a small smile on her lips like the years between them hadn’t existed. “Just a sprain. Funny running into you here.”

Dominic hesitated.

Just for a second.

Then he glanced back at me, like he’d almost forgotten I was there.

“Ah,” he said casually, “I brought my… sister in. She had a fever.”

Sister.

The word landed clean.

Precise.

I didn’t react.

I had learned not to.

Adeline nodded, like that explained everything. “You always did take care of people close to you.”

She shifted slightly, wincing.

Dominic didn’t even think.

He lifted her into his arms.

Effortless.

Natural.

Like it had always been her place.

“I’ll carry you,” he said, already walking.

Then, over his shoulder—careless, distant, like it meant nothing:

“Celeste, wait here.”

And just like that—

he was gone.

No second look.

No pause.

No question.

Just Adeline.

I leaned back against the cold wall, the quiet settling in around me.

Strangely… I felt something leave with him.

Like whatever had been holding me together all this time had finally loosened its grip.

—

When the doctor finally examined me, his expression shifted.

“Forty-one point three,” he muttered, frowning. “That’s not a simple fever.”

He looked at my wrist next, gently turning it under the light.

The burn had worsened—angrier, inflamed, the skin tight and unforgiving.

“You should’ve come in sooner,” he said. “This is infected. Stress like this only makes it worse.”

I nodded, barely listening.

“Sit. We’ll start an IV.”

My hand moved automatically toward my phone.

Dominic.

The instinct came without thought.

Call him.

Tell him.

Wait for him.

My fingers hovered over the screen.

Then stopped.

Slowly… I lowered my hand.

Habit.

That’s all it was.

A quiet, dangerous habit of reaching for someone who no longer reached back.

A breath slipped out of me—almost a laugh, if it didn’t sound so empty.

Then I stood.

Alone.

And walked toward the treatment room without looking back.