Then the horror itself, raw and visceral, crashing over him like ice water and broken glass—the kind of horror that came from realizing your sister had chosen the family punching bag over you, and he'd apparently punched very well, claiming what you'd coveted in silence for years, turning your every forbidden dream into his casual reality.
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Nothing came out—like his brain had short-circuited and was frantically trying to reboot but kept getting error messages about incest-adjacent betrayal, the kind that left you hard and heartbroken in equal measure, forever ruined by the sight of her bliss in another's arms.
The coffee cup in Danton's hand cracked. Actually cracked—ceramic fracturing under his death-grip, hot liquid seeping over his knuckles unnoticed—because pain was apparently less important than processing the fact that his twin was now part of the charity case's harem.
"What," he breathed, voice strangled, "the fuck."
