Page 104 of Touch of Hate
He’s leaning against the doorframe, shoulders up around his ears while he jams his hands into his pockets. “Forgive me?” he murmurs, lifting his brows.
“Sure. It’s all right.” I manage a weak smile, even though my anger toward River keeps me from meaning it. “You hungry? I could make some eggs.” The sooner we brush this aside, the better.
He offers a sheepish grin. “That sounds great. You make them much better than I do.”
I snort before getting up, standing on tiptoes to kiss him and run a hand over his scruffy cheek.
“Spoken like somebody who likes handing over the cooking duties.”
“No comment,” he mutters with a snicker, and we laugh together as I walk to the stove. At least his dark cloud passed quickly this time. There’s never any way of knowing whether it will.
My dark cloud, on the other hand, is still stuck squarely over my head as I pull food from the fridge. The laptop is still on the table, a reminder of River and his poison. I know they’re brothers, and they both suffered, but he’s become the symbol of all the problems I’ve experienced with Ren. Even the parts that aren’t his fault—like my suspicions about Ren being hurt or sick at some point—have become his fault in my scarred heart.
In other words, I need a scapegoat, and he’s as good a scapegoat as any.
An arsenal? I can’t keep the word out of my head as I set eggs and butter on the counter while Ren stands at the window, commenting on what a nice day it’s supposed to be. There are so many secrets in that head of his. I stare at his back, hoping he’ll come clean with me yet knowing he won’t. He wouldn’t want to admit he knows these maniacs could be armed.
What happens if we go to Reno and he’s killed? My entire body shudders at the idea, and I have to put down the egg I was about to crack for fear of crushing it in my hand.
No. I can’t even entertain the possibility of losing him.
“Where’d you go?”
His gentle, almost joking question stirs me out of the dark, horrible thoughts racing through my head. One glance his way tells me he’s concerned, watching me closely with his brows drawn together.
“Are you okay? Do you feel sick?”
I shake my head even though that’s exactly how I feel. Sick. Worried half to death. “I’m not sick. I’m worried about you.”
Whoops. So much for keeping my mouth shut.
I can’t shove the words back into my mouth.
He takes it well, chuckling and shrugging like there’s anything to be lighthearted about. “There’s no reason to be.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“Because it’s true,” he insists in a tone that reminds me far too much of how the men in my life have always placated their women. Like we’re children, too dim and naive to comprehend their business.
I slap my hand on the counter in impotent fury. I’m tired of it.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
I didn’t mean to yell it—and now, the way he lowers his brow and hits me with a stern look, I regret it. That doesn’t mean I feel any differently, though. In fact, it feels sort of good to let my true thoughts out.
That good, warm, strong feeling is what makes it possible for me to lift my chin even under the weight of his glare.
“I’m sorry for getting upset, but I’ve tried every way I know how to calmly express how concerned I am. What if something happened to you? These people, this cult… I heard you talking to your brother. You mentioned an arsenal.”
He doesn’t blink, merely accepting this. At least he doesn’t bother trying to tell me I’m wrong. If he gaslit me after all this, that might be the last straw.
I might fall to pieces, and I doubt anybody could put me back together.
Not even Ren.
His shoulders sink before a soft sigh eases from between his parted lips.
“I did. We’re assuming they have one in place at the new compound because they had one before, at Safe Haven.”