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Tate’s eyes flick between Saint and me.
Saint ends. “Tillie is a lot of things, but loyalty is her numero uno.”
Tate’s shoulders sag, just as Abel comes back with the hoodie.
Later that night, when everyone has cleared out and Saint is fast asleep upstairs, and it’s only me, Bishop, Eli, Hunter, and Cash downstairs in the sitting room, I kick my ankle up to rest on my knee. “Too close.”
Bishop rubs his palm over his mouth, fatigue shading his eyes. “Agree.”
“Which new enemy could this have been?” Eli asks, lying back on the three-seater sofa that’s against the wall closest to the fire.
I shake my head. “It was clean.”
Bishop’s eyes come to mine.
“The Rebels?” Eli asks, his eyes closing.
“Too bold for them,” Bishop answers, his eyes never moving from mine.
“This something else then?” Cash asks, lighting a smoke.
I curl my lips between my teeth. “Yeah, revenge.”
Bishop nods, our silent conversation loud. Agree.
Saint
I enjoyed being at the cabin, and it would probably always be special to me now since it was where Brantley and I first had sex, but what good is that when he won’t even touch me in a sexual way anymore. Whatever happened last night has sowed something inside of him.
After we arrive home, I unpack my clothes and sort through what needs to be cleaned, then go through the routine of feeding Medusa, Kore, and Hades. I haven’t received another text from the unknown number since I left the cabin, and there’s a part of me that thinks I need to bring it up with Brantley. It may have a connection to them being drugged. In the end, my conscience wins out and I head off in search of him. My Louis Vuitton slippers are snug on my feet, with yoga pants and a loose crop tee offering the perfect balance of comfort.
Heading into the kitchen, I find it empty. Not even V is in here cooking. I run my fingers over the modern black marble, reaching for the jar of Twizzlers. I take one out and chew on it, leaning against the counter. Sugar hits the tip of my tongue, and I scarf the whole thing down before grabbing another. Turning, I’m biting into the chewy goodness when Brantley stops at the threshold. He’s fully dressed in jeans, a plain black tee that only makes his skin seem paler, and white sneakers.
“I was looking for you,” I say, licking my lips free of the sugar. His eyes follow the movement, his jaw tense.
“What’s wrong?” He diverts his gaze and moves to the fridge, pulling one of the glass doors open and taking out a can of FITAID. Shutting it behind himself, he leans against the door, his eyes never moving from mine as his lips wrap around the bottle and his head tilts back. The veins in his neck swell as he takes gulps, but his eyes don’t leave mine. He strips me raw anytime he looks at me, rips me from the seams until I’m exposed, at his mercy. I don’t have a problem with this. He can tear me open to see what I’m made of, because all that is me has been crafted by him.
I grasp at my neck, my fingers tapping over the delicate font of my Vitiosis tattoo. I never did understand why he made me get this. I assumed it was a family rite of passage, since he has Vitiosis tattooed over his chest. But now that I’ve come to learn more of him, I’m starting to think there’s more of a reason.
He takes the three steps needed to reach me, placing his drink on one side of me while his other hand is pressed against the counter, caging me in. He cocks his head, his focus falling to my neck, where there are bruises still visible from his biting. “What, Dea? Tell me what’s on your mind.” His tone is menacing with a hint of cruelty.
I blow out a steady breath of air. “Did you find out who drugged you all?”
He pushes off the counter and leans against the one opposite me. “We know who it is.”
“Oh.” I gulp, curling my lips under my teeth.
“Anything else you want to tell me?” he asks, cocking his brow in challenge. I’ve become numb to the sight of beauty, but Brantley truly is something else. With features so sharp they had to be cut with a surgical scalpel, and eyes so dark they remind me of angry, stormy nights, he’s constantly demanding to be felt, leaving the remnants of himself on you long after he has left. I wonder how many girls have had their hearts broken by him. I got one night, and it was nowhere near enough.
“Yes, actually,” I say, clearing my throat. Reaching for my phone that’s tucked inside the waistband of my pants, I’m about to open the text message when Tillie’s voice interrupts us.
