Page 125 of Beautiful Scars

Well, now, that’s not entirely true, is it?Trish says.

And it takes me a whole fucking minute to figure out who the hell she’s talking about.

I haven’t had to prove it, but I know I wouldn’t hesitate to stand up for Kill.

My hand goes over my mouth, stifling a smile. I have no idea when I’d ever have to do something like that. But I guess there’s that story about the mouse and lion, right? If he ever gets a thorn in his paw, well, I’m his mouse.

That smile slides right off my face when Cillian grumbles and rolls onto his back. For the first time since I’ve met him, I wish he was wearing a shirt. Bruises the color of a Highveld thunderstorm marble his torso, a perfect complement to the shiner and puffy lip on his face.

I was going to climb in behind him, but instead I turn and leave his bedroom, quietly closing the door behind me.

Why am I surprised he looks like a prisoner of war? When he and Cole were fighting, I honest to God thought it would be the end of one of them.

I was secretly rooting for it to be Cole.

And why were they fighting?

Me.

All because of me.

And not in some “the world revolves around me” way. For possibly the first time in their lives, the Hendry twins don’t agree about something.

And that something is me.

* * *

“Pancakes eight o’clock at night?”

I jump out of my skin at the sound of Cillian’s voice. When I turn on my heel, spatula raised like a weapon, he quirks an eyebrow at me.

“Flapjacks,” I correct him. When he doesn’t say anything, I add, “I wasn’t a hundred percent honest.” Lowering my arm, I give him a hesitant smile. “I’m not a total lost cause in the kitchen.”

His other eyebrow joins the first as he pads toward me over the gleaming kitchen tiles. He’s wearing just a pair of sweatpants, and I swear the bruises aren’t as virulent purple as before. Guess you’d have to be a fast healer, guy like him. Maybe he showers in ice cubes or something.

Kill looms beside me, peering into the frying pan. “Anyone can make pancakes,” he says.

“Flapjacks,” I shoot back, slamming the handle of the spatula down like a judge banging his gavel.

He gives me a toothy—if slightly bruised—smile as he backs away with his hands raised. “Crumpets?”

I roll my eyes at him and turn my back, going back to the flapjacks before they set alight.

Why the hell does everyone else call them pancakes, anyway? Pancakes are thin and sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. Flapjacks you drown in syrup and butter. Bacon became optional after I watched Babe.

“You know there’s a freezer full of frozen food,” he says, waving in the direction of his double-door fridge.

“I think you deserve some freshly made comfort food.” I glance at him from under my lashes as he goes over to the coffee machine. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I went three rounds with Anthony fucking Joshua.” He lets out a soft laugh as he reaches effortlessly into the cupboard for a coffee cup. “But you should see the other guy.”

I cringe, but hurriedly smooth my face when Kill glances over at me, pretending the flapjacks are the center of my world. I don’t want him to know Cole was in my room. I have a feeling it could set off another round of Hendry versus Hendry.

“So tell me... Who let you out of your cage, princess?” Kill asks, his back to me like he couldn’t give a shit about my answer.

“Sarah.”

“She’s back?” Kill sounds surprised.