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Well, Shay ran. Roman limped.
Paxton stood in the sunlit kitchen, waving a dish towel to clear the smoke billowing out of a frying pan on the stove.
“Pax?” Roman called from behind Shay. When his hand slid across the small of her back, she shivered. “What are you doing, bud?”
“Making breakfast.” He flicked off the burners—all on high.
The kitchen was a mess, the counter strewn with breakfast items—bagged frozen hash browns, a loaf of bread, a carton of eggs, jugs of juice, spatulas and whisks.
Paxton wiped soot off his cheek. “You can sit down. I’m almost finished.”
Shay and Roman shared a glance.
“Sure you don’t want help?” Roman asked.
Paxton grabbed a stack of plates from the cupboard, and Shay cringed as one slid to the side, nearly shattering on the floor. “I’m good.”
Roman kept gaping at his brother, looking like he couldn’t decide whether he was concerned, shocked, or proud.
Shay took the Shadowmaster’s hand, threading her fingers through his, and tugged him to the kitchen table, being careful to move at his pace.
Roman’s back must’ve started bleeding again during the night, the white material of his shirt stained with streaks of dark red. He was still limping, still wincing every few seconds, but Shay could say with confidence—and relief—that he wasn’t suffering as badly as last night.
They’d slept with the light on. Shay had flicked it off about an hour after Roman had fallen asleep, only for him to jerk awake like a bomb had gone off.
“Shay?” he’d rasped into the dark room. “Shay, turn the light on. Please.”
Of course, she hadn’t argued. And of course, she’d felt bad for not cluing in sooner, her own exhaustion and preference for dark rooms causing her to forget.
Roman was afraid of the dark. And now that she was remembering back to her time spent with him in the desert, she realized she had never actually seen him sleeping.
Hindsight now told her he’d stayed awake every night, unable to fall asleep in the black motel room. When they’d eaten breakfast together that first morning, he’d claimed he hadn’t slept because he didn’t trust her.
What a good liar he was. He played his part as Shadowmaster and Wolf of the Hollow very well.
As she sat down across from Roman, she locked eyes with him.
And she vowed—silently, to herself—that the rest of the world would never know. She would keep his secret as carefully as she kept her own.
Pax served them each a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. He filled their glasses with orange juice, and then grabbed the pan of hash browns off the stove and carried it to the table.
He paused by Roman’s chair. “I burned them.” He frowned at the charred potatoes, his lower lip jutting out.
“What are you talking about, they’re perfect,” Roman said, offering Pax his plate. “Load me up, chef.”
Paxton’s frown turned into a smile, and he dumped some on Roman’s plate. “Want ketchup?”
“Please,” Roman said.
Paxton turned to Shay, pan in hand. “You don’t have to eat them if you don’t want to.”
“Of course I want to,” Shay said, holding up her plate. Paxton scraped some hash browns out of the pan. “You’re spoiling me. Thank you, Pax.”
“Welcome.” He went to the fridge to find the ketchup.
As Shay set her plate before her, she caught Roman staring.
He winked—with the eye that wasn’t as puffy as the other.
