A/N:

Thanks for reading, whether you review or not, I hope you are enjoying it! Still finishing up a school project, so it might be a couple days until the next update. :)

The Devil Wears Westwood: I know-they have to miss each other, right. Thanks! :)

kingofsuummer01: Thank you so much for your review. It really means a lot. What an amazing compliment-I appreciate it so much. I really wanted to make the continuation. Thank you for reading! And, about The Queen, I LOVE that idea. Ooo, I hope Kiera Cass has the same one.

prnamber3909: Maybe, maybe not. Thanks for reading!

Maxon's Rose: As you know by now, Maxon's okay. :) Here's your update.

The Selection Fangirl: Thank you for sticking with me! :)

Dondon33: Hope you continue to enjoy the story!

jthornestudent: Well, you have part of the answer to your question. Thanks for reading! :)

waterpolo3: Thanks. Kota will be around for awhile. :)

Selection Fan: I heart the name Abrielle, too. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing. I am glad you're enjoying it! :)

And the story continues... SJ

I resist my original impulse, which is to tell him to get the hell out of this house. Then I remember this house is technically his, and I am the one intruding. I stand a little in front of Abrielle, and see Georgia, Marlee, and Mary shift their bodies in unobtrusive ways to take more defensive stances. Except for occasional calls back to Mom, the family had lost track of Kota. While I guess we could have used royal resources to track him down, I was never that interested. Not after the way he talked about Dad. Not after the way he talked to me before the end of the Selection. How could kids from the same parents grow up so differently? What twisted in Kota that made his caste and his success more important than his family? I occasionally caught glimpses of him in provincial newspapers on the society pages. And that had been enough for me.

Without even being asked, Mary ushers Abrielle out of the garage, under hushed protest. I know without a doubt she is taking my little girl to the relative safety of the car. And, within minutes, an additional guard will join us in the garage. I glance around the garage and begin to notice that the studio is rearranged. A hastily made bed is in one corner. A diminutive sculpture sits on top of a modest dresser beside the bed. The door to the little bathroom is open, and it looks like it is in active use. The small corner shower door is wet, and there are some towels on the floor. Canvases lean against the walls, both empty and full. There are tools for sculpting, but no actual sculptures. I don't even see any raw materials. Not a bit of clay or rock. I am still taking this all in when Kota speaks again.

"Abrielle is really growing up, isn't she?"

I can feel a flush of anger creeping up my neck and I try valiantly to keep it from my voice, "Interesting statement from someone who has never met his niece." I look directly at him, and watch as his shoulders slump a little.

"I know, America. I know I don't deserve to make a statement about anything. I don't even deserve to be here right now. But, I was hoping you would come to the house when I heard you were in town. I was hoping," he looks at me shamefaced, "That we would have a chance to talk."

A guard appears at the door, "Your Majesty, is everything all right?" I look from the guard to Kota, weighing my decision. Maxon and Aspen would give me a rough time if I totally dismiss him.

I nod to the guard, "You may wait in the hall." He bows, and takes position outside the door.

"Can we," Kota swallows hard, and looks at me, "Can we have some privacy?" He looks at Marlee and Georgia, and then back at me. It wasn't an order; it was a true question. I see both women stiffen, even as they look to me for an answer.

"I don't think so," I cock my head at him, and cross my arms across my chest. "Anything you need to say to me, you may say in front of my assistants. They are like family to me." He lowers his eyes and nods his head, and I know the word "family" had the effect I intended it to. More than seventeen years of being ignored by your older brother takes a toll.

And so, he begins to speak. He shares with me how after Dad's funeral and our argument that he planned never to set foot in this house again. He admits that he didn't even watch the televised version of our wedding. But, because he is my brother his work load exploded. He became quite wealthy and spent most of his time socializing with twos. They would come from around Illea to commission pieces, and he had the fame and life he thought he deserved. It was a full year before he called Mom and gave her his number, but he watches the Report every week. He said this part hopefully, but everyone watches the Report. Gavril is still the only reporter with direct access to us, as the royal family.

I shrug a little, "So, why are you telling me this, then? Go live the life you've always wanted." I didn't try to keep the frustration out of my voice.

"I'm getting there, America. I know I was an ass. But, don't worry, I've had my come-uppance." I just raise an eyebrow as he continues, "And, I've lost everything." His eyes look misty with tears, but they don't fall. He stares at the ground and then abruptly turns from me. "So, I came here, try and paint a bit, and live with the ghosts." He crosses to a table that holds an electric kettle and struggles to plug it in with his left hand. He sets out four mugs and adds a tea bag to each.

For the first time, I notice his hair is peppered with gray and is curling over his collar. His button-down is open and his undershirt is not tucked into his worn jeans. He looks almost as weathered as his clothing.

He turns back to me, "I don't expect you to forgive me, Ames. I know there is no way to make up for what I did." Emotion creeps into his voice and his eyes look so much like Dad's. And Calix's. "I just want you to know that I'm proud of you, Sis. Now that I've got nothing that I used to value, I know what I gave up." He picks up the kettle with his left hand and begins to pour, but as it wobbles he pulls his right hand, his dominant hand, his sculpting hand out of his pocket to steady the carafe. His hand. Suddenly the messy bed and open shirt make sense. His hand is horribly limp and obviously minimally functional. Kota's hands are the key to his art, his livelihood. He really did lose everything.

My voice is barely above a whisper when I ask, "What happened to your hand?"

He snorts ruefully, "Let's just say I was with the wrong woman at the very wrong time." He shakes his head at himself.

"You can't sculpt."

"No, but I am relearning how to paint with my left hand. It's slow going, but I'll get there."

I close my eyes briefly and try not to sigh. I know what I have to do, but I really don't want to do it. Dad would want me to take care of Kota, even though I can barely stand to look at him. I can't leave him here to subsist. Marlee is wearing a look of concern on her face as she turns to me, and Georgia shakes her head no imperceptibly. They both know what I'm going to say. "You can't stay here like this alone."

"I can. It's what I've been doing, America."

"Does Mom know about your hand?" I ask, knowing she doesn't or I would have heard about it long before this morning. How could he tell her without also sharing how he got the injury in the first place?

"Oh, America. You wouldn't."

I nod. I most certainly would. We were squaring off with our bodies. "There's a hospital in Angeles that specializes in delicate and complicated situations. They rehabilitate people with lingering war injuries and have success with the most difficult cases. They wouldn't be able to bring your hand back, but they would help you learn to live with it better."

"I'm not going with you, America. That's not why I wanted to see you. I needed to clear my conscience and make amends. But, if I go with you, I'd have to face my guilt every day. I'm not strong enough for that."

"I'm not asking you to move in to the palace, Kota. I'm not even asking you to stay in Angeles. What I am going to do, however, is make sure you and your injury are well cared for. I need to know you are in the best condition you can be in before you come back home. You're my brother Kota, and I don't like you or trust you. But I am going to help you."

"I didn't ask for your help," his brow furrows and his voice has an angry edge.

I allow some of my frustration to spill through my façade, "And I didn't ask if you wanted it. This one's for Dad." I look directly into his face, my eyes flashing, daring him to disagree or argue. "You owe him."

Kota holds his hands up in surrender and sighs, "Fine. When do we leave?"