Page 28 of Fallen Crown

“Changed me,” I admit.

“Not your first injury, was it?” He searches my expression, and I have no desire for him to realize the external injuries weren’t the problem.

“No, it wasn’t.” I twist on the ledge to pick my handholds and footholds for my descent.

“Tucker, why isn’t your husband on the island?”

His question catches me by surprise, and I pause my climbing to consider my answer. “He’s away on business.”

Brice lowers himself over the edge above me, and he makes his way down until we’re almost level. “You don’t want to tell me—say that. I’m not some geriatric you’re sitting beside at a charity dinner. We don’t have to be friends, but I think we should at least be honest with each other.”

His declaration that we don’t have to be friends shouldn’t cause such a tightening across my chest, as though the notion bothers me. It’s true enough. Just because I’ve always been close to my racing teammates doesn’t mean Brice and I will ever achieve the same level of comfort with one another as a participant and coach.

He passes me, and even if I should leave it alone, I can’t.

“Nothing changes if I talk about it.” Talking doesn’t bring Enzo back or make what happened any less terrible or make my reality any less permanent.

“Fair enough.” He glances up at me, and the frustration that had crept into his voice earlier is gone. “We’ll just climb.”

When we’re both at the bottom, Brice grabs his things and motions for Jag to follow him, and he’s back to his side of the barn.

For the next hour, we climb in silence, neither of us inching any closer to the middle like we normally do, and when I leave at the end of our session, it’s not with the sense of fulfillment I’ve grown accustomed to.

At home in my apartment, I text Enzo, but he doesn’t respond, and the hollowness of my life echoes around me.

Chapter Thirteen

Brice

Along with the group workouts, Tucker and I have fallen into a pattern of training together without the rest of the team for the last few weeks. I don’t think she’s telling my teammates; I know I’m not. If she was, I’m sure Wren would have made an appearance, and we no longer need her as a buffer. Truth be told, I like it better when it’s just the two of us.

We rarely talk about anything that isn’t related to training, but ever since I asked about her dipshit husband, I’ve glimpsed hints of sadness in her that tug at something deep inside me.

She isn’t an ice queen like Seth claimed, even though I didn’t refute it at the time. Her outer shell is tough, but underneath lies something far more fragile, and every time she lets me get a peek of it, this intense desire to take on the world streaks across my chest. Thankfully, the feeling subsides, or her guard goes back up before I can morph into the Hulk. My inability to do anything for my father must be causing me to overcompensate by being protective of Tucker. Only logical explanation for this sudden flare of feeling.

“Earth to Brice,” Brent says from the pool edge where he’s been teaching me to be a more efficient swimmer. “More or are we done?”

“We’re done.” Not that he’s likely to be upset—I haven’t been the best student. He’s run me through some drills and breath control exercises to prepare for any deep dives or underwater tasks on the racecourse. I hoist myself out of the Olympic-sized outdoor pool, grab my towel off the bench, and follow him toward the changerooms.

“You’re pretty quiet. How are you doing with everything with your dad?”

“Fine.” Not quite accurate. “I’ve known for months.”

Brent holds open the changeroom door. “Posey said Nick’s having a hard time, and I thought maybe you might be too. If you’re not—cool. But if you are—”

“I support my father’s wishes.” That’s my mantra, even as fear and sadness occasionally seize me. Before my father began a noticeable deterioration, he was clear on the outcome he wanted. Having born witness to so many Alzheimer’s patients, I understand how varied the decline can be. My father doesn’t want to know what his path would look like; he has no desire to walk it.

“You can support his decision and still feel—”

“Nah,” I say, and I pop open my locker to retrieve my clothes. “No point in dwelling on what’s coming.” My phone is on the top shelf of the locker, and when I check it, there’s a text from Posey. “Posey wants to meet up?”

“She told me she’s got information on Maren Tucker. Are you two still at each other’s throat? Thought maybe you were done with your crazy revenge plot.”

His words linger in the air around me, and I stare at the text message. The smart choice would be to tell Posey I don’t want her information, that it doesn’t matter anymore. But I’ve never been great at making the smart choice when the wrong one is staring me in the face. One more shot, one last card hand, one final bet. Moderation and I aren’t really friends.

Instead of answering his question, I text Posey back that I’ll meet her at the estate in half an hour. Knowledge is power, and while I’m sure I don’t need to wield anything over Tucker’s head right now, I can’t guarantee we won’t flip back. Just the other night we could have easily slid back into combat mode if I’d let her. Whatever Posey has to tell me might not even matter or be important in the slightest. Tucker already told me about her fall. What else could there be?

When I get to my suite of rooms, Posey is already there lounging on the couch with a latte in her hand. “Where’s my boyfriend?”