Page 70 of I’m The Worst

Wolff finally turns his head, his stare intense. “You shouldn’t be talking to any of them. I’ve told you before⁠—”

“I know. Stay away from them.” I huff and look away, my eyes landing on the knife in his hand. “What are you going to do with that? Stab anyone who looks at me for too long?”

“Yes.”

I swallow roughly. “Is that why you killed the woman at the hotel?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Do you ever stop killing? Is there ever a moment when you’re not looking for the next person to kill?”

He flips the knife once, the blade catching the dim light.

Savva walks over with a handful of packaged food. He tosses a bag at me, then at Wolff. “Eat.”

I open the bag and pull out a blueberry muffin. Gross. But it’s the best option. I pick the blueberries out one by one and set them on the wrapper, then nibble on the dry bread.

“What are you doing?” Wolff’s eyes drop to the little pile of blueberries.

“I hate blueberries.”

“Don’t waste food.” He leans over and scoops up the blueberries, popping them into his mouth.

I glare at him, then shove the rest of the muffin into my mouth in one go.

“Were you always this much of a prick?” I ask around the dry crumbs. “Or did the Sovereign make you worse?”

Swallowing the last blueberry, his eyes flick to me. “Finish your food and get back in the room.”

He goes back to watching the others. I go back to hating the taste in my mouth.

The silence stretches for a long time. Just the low murmur of voices from the warehouse, the crackle of their fire, the occasional scrape of boots.

“That thing you did last night…” My cheeks burn at the memory of how gently he handled me. “Where did you learn how to do that? How to stop a panic attack like that?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Did someone teach you?”

“No.”

“Then how did you know what to do?”

His dark green gaze locks onto mine. “I pay attention.”

“To what?”

“Everything,” he says flatly.

“I just…I didn’t expect it. That’s all.” I stare at the side of his face—the hard line of his jaw, the small scar cutting through his eyebrow. “How did you get that scar?”

His hand stills on the knife. “A fight.”

“With who?”

“Christ. You ask too many fucking questions.”

“I’m just trying to make conversation.”