Page 77 of Last Man Standing

Scarlett’s horny gaze makes way for horror. Hunger turns to fear, but that fear quickly turns to scorn, since I guess she’s already sick of his shit. “Get up.” He claps my shoulder and forces me to my feet.

Dammit, I was happy here lapping up his thirsty friend’s I want your brother to fuck me raw pheromones.

Bringing me around and knocking me back a step, he stares into my eyes like I’m just another soldier in the yard. “The hell are you doing?”

Bas is jealous too.

What an interesting fuckin’ turn of events.

“Just saying hello to our new friend.” I brush his hand off and take a greedy bite of my apple. Turning to Scarlett and smiling past the droplet of juice cooling my chin, I wink and wave. “You should bring her out in the morning. Force her to eat with the commoners. The longer you keep them separate, the bigger deal it becomes when she finally wanders into the hall.”

“La Bruja?”

I snort. “Wrestling her Sir Lancelot into the shower, but not before he had Scarlett convinced he was the bastard son of a deadbeat Jameson.”

Stunned, he inches to the left and looks down at the woman shoveling food into her mouth. “What?”

“She thought he was yours. Then she thought he was mine. In the end, she realized you had two brothers and told her about neither of them.”

His eyes narrow and come back to mine. “Okay.”

“She also knows about your obsession with Top Gun.” I clap his shoulder and lay extra emphasis on the slap of my palm against his sore muscles. “Have fun, kids. Make good choices. I’m gonna track Mom down before she initiates a coup. What with it being bath time now, and bedtime in less than an hour, I’m not sure she has adequate time to reign victorious.”

“Shut up.” Bas rumbles, his eyes already on his prize. “Go away.”

“Looooove you.” I toss my spent apple into the trash can in the corner, catching the edge and whistling when it plops into the dark abyss, then I drop my hands into my pockets and saunter out of the kitchen.

“You needed to tell me you were leaving the room,” Bas barks out the instant I’m invisible to them. Dumb, emotionally stunted dipshit. Why scold her when you could just admit you were worried? “I need to know where you are at all times, Scarlett! Fuck!”

Idiot.

26

SEBASTION

WHY WON’T SHE FUCKIN’ SMILE?

Just like I did our first night here, I wait for Scarlett’s stubborn ass to fall asleep in the bathtub, and when she’s unconscious, I carry her back to my bed and pretend the way she curls into my chest isn’t more than it is. I act like her arms automatically wrapping around my shoulders doesn’t slay me, or the way she presses her nose to my neck isn’t the exact thing men have burned worlds to keep.

This woman claws her way through each day, tormented by her own consciousness while she’s stuck in a place she doesn’t want to be, with people she doesn’t want to be with. Her waking hours suck and her unhappiness beats in the air like heat in the summer.

And yet, the hours she spends unconscious are so much worse. Her dreams bring her pain, her brows furrow, her lips swell with emotion, and for every fucking minute I’m forced to watch her fight those demons on her own, I count the tears tracking onto her cheeks and the pleading whimpers on her tongue.

To pick her up, or not to pick her up? That was the question I asked myself while she wept in her sleep. If I woke her mid-dream and became the thing she feared most, I worried the damage my actions caused would outweigh the benefits of holding her close.

But then I took her hand, and her tears stopped flowing.

Risking it all suddenly seemed worth it.

When I pulled her into my arms and she curled closer, I knew she needed me.

And when I laid her in my bed and she twined herself around me like we’ve been doing this our whole fucking lives, I knew I’d made the right choice.

For weeks inside Lincoln’s house, I watched her cry her way through the night. I sat in the doorway and wished I could slay her enemies for her.

I never could.

But for a short while that first morning here, she laid beside me and she didn’t cry. Not a single tear. Not once did she beg her dreams for mercy. She didn’t whimper, didn’t plead, and goddammit, she snuggled into my side until I wasn’t sure if I wanted to drag her closer and bury my nose in her hair, or if I should toss her back to the bathtub, because I don’t do clingers.