Page 301 of Good Boys Don’t Bite

TUESDAY · 4:26 A.M.

Ronan should have been thinking about Saint. Nathan. Detective Vance. The five names written inside a notebook that should never have connected to each other. The anonymous account that had apparently spent months talking to both Nathan and Elliot while one man watched and the other killed. Any one of those things deserved every functioning part of his brain. Instead, Ronan was staring at Elliot’s throat. The bruise Nathan had left there was darkening. Finger-shaped shadows pressed into pale skin beneath his jaw, ugly against the softness everyone associated with Elliot Mercer. His damp hair curled slightly at the ends. His black shirt hung loose enough that one side had slipped toward his collarbone. Ronan stared. Then realized he was staring.

Then became furious with himself for staring. Elliot noticed. Of course he fucking noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Elliot’s mouth twitched. Ronan pointed at him.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did.”

“My face is innocent.”

“Your face is literally the least trustworthy thing about you.”

That smile grew. Small. Pretty. Dangerous now that Ronan understood what could exist behind it. Maybe it had always been dangerous. That was the problem. Ronan looked away. The kitchen was a disaster. A broken glass had been swept into a pile near the wall. One cabinet remained open from the struggle. Blood had been cleaned from the hallway, but Ronan could still see the faint pink smear someone had missed near the bottom of the stairs. Nathan’s blood. Elliot’s knuckles. His own arm. Too many things had happened in too few hours.

“You should sleep,” Elliot said.

Ronan laughed.

“Sure.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“You’re exhausted.”

“So are you.”

“I’m fine.”

Ronan looked at him. Elliot paused.

“Bad word choice.”

“Very.”

Silence settled again. Elliot stood on the opposite side of the island. He had been doing that since Vance left. Keeping furniture between them. Keeping distance. Waiting for Ronan to decide what happened next. It was so unlike him that Ronan almost hated it. Elliot had spent their entire relationship taking. Space. Attention. Kisses. Control. He crowded Ronan when jealous. Bit when words failed him. Put his hands wherever he wanted and looked almost offended whenever Ronan reminded him that other people existed. Now he stood six feet away like Ronan might shatter if he came closer. Ronan hated that more.

“Why are you over there?”

Elliot frowned.

“What?”

“You’ve been standing on the other side of the kitchen for ten minutes.”

“I’m giving you space.”

“I didn’t ask for space.”