Page 162 of Romeo

Maybe I’d been wrong.

There was something almost addictive about watching Fiona arrive at each realization on her own. Every step belonged to her. Every flirtation that went a little farther. Every question she finally risked asking. Every piece of herself she offered because she’d decided I was safe enough to receive it.

Whatever secret she was still afraid to tell me would come the same way.

When she was ready.

I plugged in the phone and settled beneath the blankets.

Fiona might not have told me she loved me tonight.

But she’d gotten close enough that sleep was probably fucked for another few hours.

I could live with that.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Fiona

The Sons of Hell clubhouse had never felt this loud.

Voices overlapped around me, boots crossed the wooden floor, and every time the front door opened, conversation shifted as if someone might finally be bringing news. Normally, the familiar chaos comforted me.

Tonight, every sound scraped against nerves stretched too tight.

I paced between the couch and the far end of the room with my phone locked in my hand. Banks had asked me twice if I wanted something to drink. Nash had tried talking about school. Georgie had stopped pretending he wasn’t watching me fifteen minutes ago.

None of them could give me the only thing I wanted.

Jasper had texted before the fighting started.

Then nothing.

I didn’t know exactly what was happening in Nebraska. The little information the Sons of Hell had received made the situation sound worse every time someone tried to reassure me.

A battle.

That was the word they were using.

Not a fight.

Not trouble.

A battle.

“Fiona, sit down,” Banks said from behind me.

I looked over my shoulder at where he stood beside the bar with concern written across his face.

“I’m fine.”

His expression suggested neither of us believed that. “Sitting might help.”

“I don’t want to sit.” If I sat, I’d have nothing to do but stare at the phone. Pacing at least gave my body somewhere to put the panic.

Nash leaned against the end of the couch. “Romeo knows what he’s doing.”

I pressed my lips together. I knew he was trying to help; instead, my mind supplied every reason it didn’t. Knowing how to fight didn’t make someone bulletproof. Experience didn’t stop blood loss. Being dangerous enough to scare other people didn’t mean you came home from every fight.