“I love you,” I said into his hair before pressing a kiss there.
I took the bowl from him gently and turned to make more pancakes. Silently, Walcott and Patsy came over to help me and set up plates for serving.
So no one was watching Brando.
“They don’t smell so good,” he murmured somewhat dazedly from behind me.
I was so mired in anger at Tiernan that I didn’t really hear him, cursing out our guardian instead.
If I’d been paying attention, I would have known.
Smelling something strange or bad was one of Brando’s warning symptoms.
A moment later there was an awful crash and sickening thud.
I spun around with my heart in my throat because I already knew what I would find.
Brandon had fallen off the island to the slate floors, his little body jerking wildly, his head already bleeding from the knock against the ground. Shards of crockery lay around his prone form like shrapnel, a piece cutting into his cheek each time he seized.
I was on my knees beside him in a nanosecond, the timer on my watch counting each second that he convulsed. Gently, I moved him onto his side, catching myself on a piece of porcelain as I brushed it out of the way.
Tiernan appeared in my line of vision, his face as grim as the Reaper’s.
“What can I do?”
I cradled Brando’s head gently on my thighs, bending to check the wound from his fall. It was a shallow cut, bleeding heavily as head wounds do, but not lethal.
“Clear the sharp pieces away from him so he doesn’t cut himself anymore,” I ordered.
Tiernan moved into action with cold efficiency, his cell tucked between his cheek and shoulder as he plucked shards off the ground. Pancake batter and blood stained his thousand-dollar suit pants, but he seemed unaffected. Patsy handed me a folded-up towel to use for his head, but Brando was already growing still and heavy, the seizure passing. I used the towel to staunch the blood flow from his head.
I always held my breath until he finally opened his eyes after an episode, air exploding in a sob from my lips as his lids fluttered and parted. His eyes were so blue, so vivid, it helped remind me that he was alive, that he would be okay.
“B-Bianca?” he slurred groggily, his gaze unfocused.
“Hush, I’m here, Brando,” I assured him, smoothing his pale hair back from his forehead. My hands were covered in blood, his and some of my own from slicing open my palm, but I didn’t care. “How do you feel, buddy?”
“Myheadhurts,” he continued to slur, but his eyes sharpened and he struggled to sit up.
I helped him, cradling his body between my legs. He rested against my chest, curling into me as he took a few deep breaths. I always tested his breathing, pulse, and mobility after a seizure to see if we had to go to the hospital or not.
“Hey,” Tiernan said, crouching in front of us. He hesitated before reaching out to rub a knuckle over Brando’s cheek. “You need to go to the hospital, kid?”
Brando shook his head, fisting my shirt in one hand as he pressed even closer. He was always sleepy and needy in the aftermath. Once I put him to bed, he would probably nap for hours.
“I timed it,” I explained to Tiernan. “It was under five minutes, which is the danger zone. As long as he can walk alright, he should be okay to stay home. I’m just worried about this cut…”
“I’ll call my private doctor,” he said immediately, already turning to his phone. “Ezra? Help Brandon and Bianca get upstairs.”
Ezra stepped out from the group that had gathered in the corner of the kitchen, watching us with varying degrees of concern. He offered a hand to Brando, who took it without question, getting up on weak knees to walk a few steps. He looked over his shoulder at me for validation that he didn’t have to go to the hospital, which he hated, and I sighed before nodding at him.
His smile was tremulous, but there. When I stood up, he lifted his arms so I would pick him up. He was getting too big, really, but he liked the physical contact after the trauma.
Ezra followed me out of the room and up the stairs to Brando’s bedroom. Walcott was already there turning down the bed with its new Spiderman sheets, a glass of water placed on the nightstand. I crawled into bed with Brando, mostly because he wouldn’t let me go. Walcott closed the curtains while Ezra lingered.
“I’m okay, Ez,” Brando said before a yawn overtook him. “But you can stay if you want.”
The huge man with hands bigger than Brando’s head hesitated, then took a seat in the large chair by the window.
“Anca,” Brando whispered, turning his entire body into mine, slinging a slim leg over my hips, his arm over my breasts to he could thread his fingers in the ends of my hair.