Once made new by makeup, I do eventually have to be unmade. After a smaller dinner than the night before, less exciting but still pleasant, Violette announces it's time to clean my face. Eric laughs and says getting the gunk off is the best part (I actually saw some of the faces she'd done for him before on Instagram, her audience ate it up whenever "Daddy" guested), and Jett nods, trying not too look uncomfortable with the idea of us alone.

We head upstairs, Violette in the lead again. She makes me wait in the pristine and spacious bathroom beside her room, which is painted a pastel green and decorated with small porcelain statues of rabbits and birds. The towels are white, embroidered at the edges with yellow and pink flowers. It's the bathroom we'll share when we move in, but the design's clearly a garden made for her.

This is obviously a serious procedure for her. She unloads an array of products from the sink drawers and lines them up. She even carries in the chair from her vanity so I can sit at a low enough angle for her without perching on the edge of the toilet lid or bathtub. I would've gotten it for her if she'd told me where she was going!

My uncle, clearly nervous about all the time we're spending together, comes into the open bathroom, inanely saying something about getting a bottle of cleaner from the cabinets underneath the side-by-side sinks. He's stopped in his tracks by Violette's ice cold stare. She points toward the doorway, and he swiftly backs up and apologizes for intruding. She shuts the door and locks it after him. Truly, a woman after my own heart.

"We're doing girl stuff, stay out," she says loudly to the closed door, before walking back to me.

"Oh, I get included in girl stuff?" I ask.

"You include yourself in boy stuff all the time, shouldn't you do it for girl stuff too?"

"What, you mean like using 'nephew'? That's just... you know, it's simpler."

"Well, I say we're doing girl stuff and you're included." She puts her hands on either sides of my face and turns the power of her stare against me. But I have both a spine and a crush, so I just think she's cute.

"You can call me 'Sis' if you want to that badly," I say, under my breath, in case Jett's lingering outside the door. Violette's eyes scrunch with amusement.

"No," she says, very seriously. Brother it is, then.

Next comes the procedure. Skin care's not completely foreign to me, I'm moisturized, but I have no idea what half the stuff she rubs on my face is.

First, there's the oil to remove the makeup, like white spirits wiping away a painter's mistakes. Second, a moist wipe for any remaining makeup, followed by a cleanser I have to move to the sink to wash off. Then, a liquid with a faint alcoholic stinging sensation that she apologizes for, multiple creams, a roller with dots of sharp points on it, and a final thin lotion she buffs into my skin. Her hands are careful, and neither of us speak much through the process, but our eyes meet whenever I open them.

"You do all that every day?" I ask when she's finished. My face feels raw, scrubbed, but also refreshed. Now I can loop my arms around her waist and rest my hands on her round butt. Earlier would've been disrespecting her craft.

"No, that was a special course. I only do it once a week," she says. She moves so her legs are either side of mine, the hem of her dress dragging along the top of my thighs. Hard not to think of how the position has opened her up, and she's probably aching again. I thought my sex drive was high, but Violette's seems to be on a whole other level. It makes teasing her quite tempting.

"Wow, lucky me, getting the VIP treatment," I say.

"Well, you wore a lot on your skin today. For me."

"You're so good at aftercare, Mistress."

She pushes against my shoulder half-heartedly at my dumb joke, then leans in closer, enough that we're sharing the same air.

"I'll do it for real if you let Daddy fuck you..."

I click my tongue but don't move away. "You won't give up on that, huh? I... could be convinced. But let me fuck you there first." I press my left hand into her ass for emphasis.

"Okay. Do you want me to convince you? Or will you convince yourself?"

If you'd asked me two days ago what I'd say to that, I would've given a very different answer. "Both. Just be gentle with me. I don't need you to use your big hammer like you do on Jett."

"It's not a big hammer," she protests, but with a giggle.

I often use humor to make myself seem less threatening. Sharp people tend to sense something off about me. Those're probably the sort who'd trust their gut and not go home with a serial killer. Joking around smooths over some of that without making me waste mental energy. But it's different with Violette; I just want to see her smile.

"Small hammer then. With pink hearts on the side. It'd be a real cute one, either way."

She pokes her tongue out, then seems to think of a better use for it as she pushes her mouth against mine, her arms draping over my shoulders. I wonder how much kissing she's done before me? She's good at it.

When we break apart, her cheeks are a warm pink. I stroke her hair with my right hand, my left still gripping her ass. "I'll get one of those kits with plugs that come in different sizes, stretch you out over time. You can wear them to school for me... little sis."

The shiver that runs through her transfers to me through her arms. I felt silly saying it, but the reaction was worth it.

"Yes, Brother," she says obediently, and she gives it much more gravitas than I do. I'll get better with practice.

"That's my good girl." I hold her cheek and stroke it with my thumb. "You'd do anything for your big brother, right?"

"Anything," she breathes. Easier than I expected. "Brother" was really the cheat code, huh?

"Anything? Even letting me suck on your cute tits in front of Daddy?" Saying it like that makes me cringe internally, but I relax at Violette's moan against my ear. I can see her nipples pushing stiff peaks through her dress. They're begging for it.

"We might get in trouble if you do that," she whispers hotly. Sounds like she's imagining it.

"Or he might want to join. That's another reason to get your ass trained, right? We could fuck you at the same time."

"Nnngh."

She presses her hips forward, searching for friction.

"Shh," I remind her, "Unless you want my uncle to know what a dirty little slut you are?"

She shoots a glare at the door. "He wouldn't still be there."

"No, but nearby? Definitely. His neuroticism knows no bounds."

"Hmph." With that, she draws away from me, goes back to her line of potions on the counter, and starts taking her makeup off. As promised, she only does a few of the steps she did on me. Her pale skin shows much more pinkness than mine, and by the time she's done she's rosy all over. It makes me wonder.

I know it's a bad idea the second my mouth starts to form the words, but I still ask: "Do you look a lot like your mom?"

Her lips push together into a straight line, and her nose wrinkles like a bad smell has passed under it. Eric's not the only one who doesn't want to think about her, huh?

"Too much. I should look more like Daddy." She starts clattering around, putting away the various products on the counter without another word.

I don't say that would make fucking him even weirder. I say something even stupider instead.

"What happened with her? Do you ever see her?"

Don't ask me why I went there, so soon, so abruptly, when Violette obviously doesn't want to talk about it. I don't know myself. Some sense that I'm special enough to get away with it, I suppose.

I am not. She slams the cabinet door and turns on me with betrayal in her blue eyes.

"I don't want to see her, I hate her! She took advantage of Daddy!" she says, not loud enough to be a yell, but the loudest I've heard her soft voice.

Something petty inside me flares up, resentful at her anger over an innocent question, that I can't calm her down the easy way. I wish I could get inside her head.

"Aren't you doing the same thing?"

I expect her to get heated and argue with me, not crumble like a dry autumn leaf underfoot. Her eyes fill with tears and she wraps her arms around herself, as if to hold the breaking pieces together.

"I know, I know I'm bad too," she sobs, and the emptiness inside her yawns like a hungry mouth, seems to expand around her until she's completely shadowed in my mind's eye. I have to squint to see that she's still right there in front of me.

I'm afraid that touching her in the middle of all that darkness might erase me, but I push past it and put my arms around her, add to the pressure keeping her grounded. The pervasive feeling of nothing recedes into the background after a few moments.

"Shh, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. Your dad loves you, so you can't be that much like her," I say against the top of her head. "He's always thinking about you."

She sniffles and presses against my chest, and I hope that means she forgives me for being an asshole. Maybe?

Unfortunately, she doesn't stop crying, and this isn't the best place for me to comfort her. I put my hands on her shoulders and gently turn her toward the door.

"Let's go to your room," I say.

She nods and goes to unlock the door. Her tears are mostly silent, but she makes snuffling, snotty noises now and then. Each one hits me like a jab. I should have tread careful around such a sensitive subject, one that even Eric--who happily accepts almost any directive thrown his way--won't focus on. What the hell was I thinking?

In the hallway, she's headed to the left to her room when the door to the right, the master bedroom, opens.

Jett. I knew he'd be nearby. Not close enough to eavesdrop, but enough to hear when we came out.

Violette hunches her shoulders up and hurries to her room, but Jett sees the tears streaming down her face. Horror passes over his face as he assumes the worst.

"Oran, what're you doing?" he asks, his mind full of unvoiced accusations.

I shake my head and head toward Violette's room, ignoring him. He makes a disgusted noise and rushes downstairs, like the snitch he is.

"I'll be back. Gotta deal with my uncle. I'll make you some tea," I say in Violette's doorway. She's lying limp on her side atop the bed's quilt, her eyes vacant and wet, like a doll that's been discarded in the rain by a careless owner. I see her nod ever so slightly. That's something.

I turn away, shut her door, and head down the stairs. As I walk, I feel like my body splits into two. One part roils with so much agitation and fury that smoke may as well be pouring out of my eyes and mouth. The other part moves as quiet and slow as a sleeper. Calm and distant. My heart beats along to the rhythm of my careful steps.

I think I'm dissociating.

I can hear Jett talking frantically to Eric, trying to convince him that I've done something to hurt Violette. Can't say I haven't, but not at all what he's telling Eric I may have done.

I wonder how I'd look to someone with powers like mine right now. Would I seem as shadowed by absence as Violette does at times? Black holes emit a sound, don't they? Would I sound like that? Another step. My brain's going haywire, blurring my vision with swirls and star bursts.

Haven't felt this out of control in a while.

I reach the entrance to the family room where Jett is slandering me and slam the side of my fist against the wall to get his attention. My pulse wakes up at that. The adrenaline pumping just adds to the chaos in my head.

Jett whips around, drawing up to his full height like that's supposed to intimidate me, his face clenched with anger.

Me too, you fucker.

"Oran!" Anger fear repulsion worry resentment judgement nausea anxiety. His infuriating blurry emotions wash over me. I hate that he can't even think right.

"Stop fucking lying about me, I didn't do shit to Violette," I hiss. They exchange a glance. Both of their thoughts are so loud I can barely hear myself speak.

"I saw the look on her face!" he says, then turns back to Eric. "I'm sorry I wasn't upfront about it, but I was concerned they might do something untoward."

"But they were gettin' along so well, I wouldn't think..." Eric trails off, his brow furrowed. He's confused why I'd even need to assault her, as Jett is implying, when it's likely she would come on to me first. His current understanding of reality gives me a real leg up. But he does love and trust Jett, so his simple brain runs in circles, a dog trying to catch its own tail.

I'll put Eric out of his misery. I close my thoughts like a fist around the flickering light of his consciousness. Sleep. Dream. Know nothing.

He drops back into his chair, his eyes closed, body slack. A snore echoes out of him a second later. Jett sees this and spins around, part of him immediarely aware that I'm the culprit. And though his thoughts are screaming in alarm, he still advances on me.

"I don't know what you're doing, Oran, but this has to stop." He reaches for me.

Rage makes me stronger, though that detached part of me knows I'll suffer for it later. It doesn't matter now. I should be comforting Violette. Jett finds himself unable to move, his arm frozen in front of himself. I walk past him to the kitchen.

"I just said something thoughtless, all right?" I say as I open the refrigerator. "You jumped to conclusions."

Jett makes a strangled noise, and I roll my eyes into the fridge at the sound. Fine, have your mouth back.

"You can't think I believe that after your behavior," Jett says once he can speak again. I regret allowing it.

Oh, there's the tea I saw earlier in the day. It's the Korean style, sugary like jelly, made of honey and ginger. Perfect for offering to sweet little Violette.

I close the fridge, can't help but smirk at the furious look on Jett's face.

"If I had raped her, it's not like you could stop me from doing it again," I point out as I go to find a mug and turn the automatic tea kettle on. Jett strains, but my hatred is far stronger than any muscle in his body. My vision does blur and whiten at points, but I hold on.

"Don't you dare," Jett says, his voice quiet this time. "Oran. You wouldn't do that. Would you?"

Done it to you enough times, you shouldn't sound so surprised. But you're too stupid to remember it that way, aren't you?

"Who knows," I say aloud. I spoon big helpings of the tea into two mugs, one for me, one for her. The kettle rumbles faintly at my side.

"We can talk about this," he says, though he doesn't believe it.

"Kneel," I order, and Jett obeys, though he never knows why. The reasons are so, so slippery in his mind. He doesn't like knowing.

I walk over to him and push him down to the ground, put my foot on his back, press his face into the floor.

"Oran," he says, and I can feel sadness and disappointment bubble out of him more surely than tears. "Michael wouldn't want you to--"

"Shut the fuck up!" I scream it before I can think it, barely stop myself from kicking him in the ribs. I press my hand into my forehead to stop the pulsing whiteness that fills my vision.

Once it passes, I stoop down and grab him by the collar of his shirt, roll him onto his back. "How fucking dare you bring him up."

The sound of the kettle rises in pitch behind me.

"I have to guide you because he's not here," Jett says, his glasses askew, his eyes cloudy. "Please. You can't treat people this way."

"That's where you're fucking wrong."

I press my hand onto his face, five fingers pressing into his skin in a starfish shape. He's such a pain in the ass to control. I pull, pull pull pull pull until he can't help but yield the memory of this confrontation to me.

Boiling. The kettle screeches with steam behind us.

Jett goes limp. He always does, eventually.

Sleep. Forget.

I stand on shaky legs and drift back to the kettle.My body's a small sailboat battered around by strong breezes as I slop water into the mugs. Okay. Stirring now, testing for taste. Hot, but good. Violette gets the sweeter one.

I leave the room like a criminal fleeing the scene of a crime, bodies and all. I just have to make it up the stairs with the tea. Violette will forgive me. Eric and Jett will forget. I'll get the sun-drenched feeling of this morning back. One step at a time.

* * *

When I open the door to her room, to my surprise, my abandoned doll has righted herself. She's sitting up with a pillow in her arms, and it looks like her tears have dried, until she sees me and two drops well up and roll down her cheeks. She wipes them away hurriedly with the back of her hand.

"I heard shouting," she says in a voice thickened by stuffed sinuses.

"Got heated, but I took care of it." I use my foot to push the door closed, then pad over to her with the cups of tea and offer her the sweeter one.

She lowers the pillow into her lap and takes the tea with two hands. Her head bows over the mug as the steam drifts into the air. "Sorry."

"God, what are you sorry for? I said a bunch of dumb shit. I should've known better." I settle down on the bed next to her, and not too soon, because my earlier exertion is catching up to me. Everything feels swimmy.

She bumps shoulders with me, notices that I'm shaking, and looks up at me through her bangs. No more tears, as least. That's good.

"Used a lot of energy," I say. "Don't sweat it."

She takes a loud sip of the tea, her eyes shining with wetness that doesn't fall. I give a weak smile, almost wish she'd cry again. Then I'd have a concrete thing to fix.

"Did you hurt him?"

"What, your dad? No way. He's easy to put to sleep. He's having a big nap in his chair."

"That's good. And Uncle Jett?"

Still weird that she calls him that. "He's... fine. I didn't hurt him either. He might wake up sore from sleeping on the floor."

I take a sip from my own mug. The spicy ginger contrasts nicely with the sweet honey. Ignore how much my hands are trembling as I lower the mug.

"Thought about it though," I admit. "I lose my temper with him."

"He's annoying."

"Yeah."

We stay side-by-side like that for a while, drinking our tea. Eventually, I put my tired arm around her, and she leans into my side.

"I really am bad, aren't I?" Violette asks.

"Maybe. But me too."

With the last of my strength, I get up and put our empty mugs on the sidetable. Then I gesture for her to move to the other side of the bed, giving me room to collapse on my back. So tired. The fever's coming on, making the world seem false around the edges.

She leans over me, her pretty blonde hair tickling at my cheek. "Are you okay?"

"I don't have a big hammer," I say with a drunken-sounding laugh. The world narrows to just her face and hair above me. "S'fine. I deserve it. Sorry I acted like it was small. 'Course it's not."

"I think she could do the same thing as me. I don't want to be like her."

Yeah. At first, I assumed that Eric had been trying to prove his heterosexuality when he made Violette, but her earlier words connected the dots. Hadn't I also always wondered if I inherited my abilities from one of my parents? Her own existence is pretty good evidence, and maybe she has more she isn't telling me. I learned my lesson and won't pry.

"You're not like her," I insist.

"How am I different?" Her lip wobbles.

No, no, that won't do. I reach my hand up and poke her in the cheek, right where her dimples appear when she smiles.

Sadly, my overheated brain does struggle with what to reply. I can't just say because I like her and not her mom. "You didn't know what you were doing at first, right? She probably did. And you don't scare him like she did. He sees you all glowing and special. Soooo... it's fine. Isn't it?"

Or does that make it worse? Too late, already said it.

"Are you really okay?" she asks, her hand going to my forehead. Oh, but was I that incoherent? Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the starlet, and the islet, and my Violette. I think my argument spoke for itself.

"Overdid it. Getting sick now," I manage. Worse, I think I'm blacking out? She's getting further away as I sink into my own sludge. I can't feel her face with my hand anymore.

Kindly, she puts cool hands on both my cheeks. It doesn't stop me from babbling. "Do you feel better? I want you to feel better. I thought you wanted to be fucked up together. I want it but it's scary because I don't know. I can't make you love me."

Bright, then, her voice, though it comes from such a long way away. "You don't need to."

* * *

Waking up feels like swimming out of a deep, deep sea, until I breach the surface with a gasp into mid-day sun.

Unexpectedly, I find myself in my underwear and under the covers. Violette must have gotten me out of my borrowed clothes and tucked in when I was so out of it I don't remember.

It's a good thing too, because I can feel the sheet and pillow underneath me are damp with sweat. Ugh. My face feels sticky and dry, all Violette's hard work yesterday undone by my overdoing it.

Checking my phone, I confirm what the light had hinted: it really is halfway through the day. No wonder she's not here anymore. She probably lingered until it it became clear I was going to sleep many more hours.

There's water with a little ice left on the side table, and the mugs from last night are gone. The water feels heavenly on my dry throat. Once I finish the glass, I grit my teeth and do the equivalent of flexing my mental abilities.

Eurgh. Yep. Hurts, and feels like my well's as dry as a persimmon left out for six months instead of three. Fine. No manipulating or reading anyone today. Not like I want to after last night.

I slide to my feet and see that she's laid out the clothes Jett brought for me on top of the white wood chest at the foot of her bed. It takes me some unstable wrestling, but I get dressed. She really wanted me to have an easy wakeup, huh? I imagine her bustling around clearing the mugs away, bringing me water and clothes, that default expression on her face that makes her seem serious, like a cat with eyebrow stripes that point down. I hug the poster at the corner of her bed, glad no one's around to see the punch-drunk smile on my face.

I lied, Violette, you're not bad at all. You're perfect. The cutest girl in the whole world.

That's when I notice a noise, faint, through her bedroom door.

I steady myself, wipe the dumb smile away, and go into the hallway.

Hmm. It really was the sound of sex. Eric, specifically, being his usual loud self. I walk down the hall, toward the open master bedroom at the end of it. The slick sound accompanying his groans has to be Violette.

I step into the room to quite a sight.

There's Jett, by the side of the bed, pants around his ankles, one hand around his dick. Violette's straddling Eric, her hands pressed into his belly for support, as she rides him enthusiastically. So much for her guilt last night, huh? Daddy's really too much to resist.

"Getting busy without me, huh?" My throat still sounds raspy, despite the water. Gotta make more tea later.

"Oran!" She tosses her long hair as she twists her upper body to smile at me. I lean against the doorframe for moral support. How can one girl be so innocent and so sexy at the same time, doorframe? You've gotta help me out here, keep me on my feet.

"I'm sorry about last night." She turns back to Eric and puts her hands on him again, this time to push herself up and off of his cock. I think that she's coming to me for a second, until she resettles on him in a reverse cowgirl position. Ah, a foolish mistake to think she'd give that up. She just wants to look at me without straining.

"You don't need to be sorry, for real," I reiterate. "I was nosy and acted petty when you didn't like it."

"But Uncle Jett freaked out because I wanted to keep secrets. So I fixed that," she says, sounding pleased with her solution. Her hips move in little circles that make Eric grunt, but he stays obediently still for her, even without explicit instruction.

She gestures at my uncle, whose eyes are focused entirely on the point where Eric and Violette are joined. His hand mimics the motion of her hips quite faithfully. Enjoy your new fetish, dude; can't say I'm not in the same boat. "Now they both won't mind! Tell Oran you're sorry, Uncle Jett."

"I... yes... Violette said I was unkind... I understand her needs now... I do apologize..."

Jett sounds absolutely zonked, which I assume means Violette used her metaphorical hammer to beat him into submission earlier. Her eyes are eager and shining. Even her hips wiggle, puppy-dog excited, as she waits for my approval.

I like it, okay? I love it. She's a big wolf with blood on her jaws that wants to be a bichon frisé, and I'm just the lucky hunter she gifts her kills to.

"You did great," I say. Aware that I sound tired, I smile as big as I can for her.

It gets across. She shivers at my praise and grinds harder on Eric, her head tipping back as the pleasure rolls over her.

"I'll be good for you. I'll be so so so good. So tell me when I am, okay?" She asks it as sweet as flower-scented honey.

"Of course. And you're being so good right now, Violette." I'll rewrite the meaning of the word for her if I have to, and lie all the way there, if that's what it takes.