‘You respect him.’
‘Jules.’
‘He’s older than me and he’s braver.You trust him.’
‘I’m not in the mood and there are bigger things than your bullshit rich kid inferiority complex.I don’t like him like that.Getoverit.’
Jules frowns, visibly hurt.
Lachlan was too harsh, knows it instantly.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Whatever.’
‘No, listen—’
Jules doesn’t listen.
He pushes past.
Goes to lunch.
Lachlan feels like shit all day.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Come sundown, he’s in desperate need of a punching bag.
What he wouldn’t give to spar with Danya right now.
Lachlan’s irritation climbs like ivy every time one of these stupid fucking people laughs at something that’s not funny, whenever they fawn over one another, whenever either of the Delacroix twins speaks.
The sun is overbearing.
The heat is oppressive.
The sea is a nightmare to watch, too much glare and poor visibility.
Lachlan hates it more than he’s ever hated the Estate.
He’s sorely tempted to take thirty minutes for himself, try to cool down somehow, but he can’t leave, can’t look away, not safe.
After lunch, Jules goes for a nap.
Lachlan has rounds to make.
He’ll apologise later, make it right when he has time.
Along the way, he hears Kessler speaking to Thomas Whitlock while the pair stand outside the sauna.They’re alone, talking quietly.Lachlan stops and stays out of view, listening unashamedly.
‘—generators after the last time.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘It didn’t come back on for days before.The place was like an oven.’
