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I hate that I’m relieved he’s joking.

Because twenty minutes ago, I saw something in him I’ve never seen before.

Rage.

Not anger. Not the quiet irritation he uses on me when I’m climbing ladders or refusing his help.

Something darker.

For a few terrifying seconds, I don’t think Dane knew where he was.

Then I called his name.

And he came back.

I wrap his hand carefully. “You need an X-ray.”

“No.”

“You might have broken your pinky.”

“Probably.”

I stop.

His eyes meet mine.

“Why did he call you Killer Miller?”

Dane goes completely still.

There it is again.

That wall.

He looks away.

“Dane.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Ask questions you’re not going to like the answers to.”

“Let me decide what I like.”

His jaw works.

I wait.

Finally, he stands. “I was twenty-five.”

I don’t move.

“Just got out of the military. Came back here. Didn’t know what the hell I was doing with myself.”

He walks toward the window.