Page 73 of Torin

Orson’s expression shifts. “I’m not blaming you.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” He exhales and looks toward the window. “Your dad’s the problem. And Torin apparently losing whatever common sense he had left.”

“Fuck off.”

“Excellent argument.”

Despite everything, a laugh escapes me.

Orson looks at me, his attention catching on the fading bruise along my jaw. He lets out a long breath. “Fuck. Which room?”

Torin doesn’t answer immediately.

Orson looks back, eyebrow raised. “Well?”

“I can sleep anywhere,” I say quickly. “The sofa’s fine.”

Both brothers look at me.

“No,” they say together.

Orson’s gaze returns to Torin. “Well?”

“The room next to mine.”

Orson gives a single nod. “Makes sense.”

He turns and disappears down the hallway.

I watch him go. Then I look at Torin.

“It’s the quickest room to get to,” he says.

It takes me a second to understand.

“If you need me.”

My chest tightens.

He says it like there was never any question that he’d come.

A small smile touches his mouth. “Come on.”

He takes my backpack. “Let’s get you settled in.”

I follow him down the hallway. His door is the first on the left. Mine is the second.

Torin pushes my door open and carries my backpack inside.

Afternoon sunlight spills through the open window, and a breeze moves the curtains. The room is simple—a double bed, a closet, a chest of drawers and a battered armchair in one corner—but after Bennett’s cabin, it feels enormous.

Torin sets my backpack beside the closet.

“Alexandria stayed in here.”

I look around. “She did?”