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“We do,” Ashe assures me. “A lot.”
I hate them. I hate that I look at him, taken aback by the words, and then I turn my glare on Cyril as if he’s the source of my problems.
He only grins.
“We’re not keeping you here,” he promises, shrugging one shoulder. “But remember what I said. No cover-ups.”
“We’ll fuckingsee,” I hiss, my hands clenched at my sides.
“Sure,” he agrees like he’s just saying it to placate me. And he probably is. With that, he makes a dismissive gesture with his hand, and I back up again. “Go on home, rabbit-hearted girl." Is he making fun of me for the way my body reacts with terror at the threat ofthem? “We’ll talk more later.”
“Call me if your tattoo is healing weird,” Arlo says, stepping out of my way. When I give him a perplexed, incredulous look, he adds, “Well, you can call Ashe too. But I’m nicer.”
“He’smuchnicer,” Ashe agrees, but I barely hear him because I’m already out the fucking door.
