“On the table,” I order my little brother once he’s done catching his breath. “Fuck you. You’ve had your fun. We’re done.” He springs to his feet and makes a beeline for the doorway. I catch his arm, jerk him back, then spin him around and slam him down onto the table. Thankfully, the table is made of old wood, sturdy enough to handle his weight. It doesn’t so much as creak. Colt hisses in pain and kicks out, heel slamming against my thigh as he screams in frustration. It doesn’t hurt, but he’ll have to pay for the attempt…