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I inhaled another breath, shrugged, and went back to my task.
Tillman’s booted footsteps stomped back down the stairs. “And what the fuck have you done to your hair?”
Say nothing.
I sighed again and shook my head. It had been better to let him blow off steam before trying to get a word in.
“You know what?” He huffed. “There is not one damn thing you can say or do to make up for what you did to me. You left. You didn’t get your own fucking way, and you ran. You didn’t even wait to hear my side. You never trusted me. You never loved me.”
Me, me, me! Always me. I did everything wrong.
He was such a jerkface.
“You got me exiled from my own pack.” His pleading whine grated on my every nerve.
I lifted my head and stared at the back wall.
Say nothing. Do not apologize.
“I tried so hard to make you love me.”
And that was your problem.
“I tried to...you know what? Fuck it and fuck you.”
I exhaled another long sigh.
Whatever makes you feel better.
He marched back up the stairs. I jumped as the larder door slammed shut, the tight seal making my ears pop from the sudden pressure change. I listened to hear his boots on the wooden decking but, apparently, he changed his mind again. When he opened the door, he did it quietly and with care. His boots took the stairs softly, as though he’d managed to contain his anger.
He took deep, uneven breaths, and his voice cracked when he spoke. “I just want you to talk to me.” He sniffled. “Don’t you have anything to say to me?”
You broke every promise you ever made to me.
I faced him, my expression as devoid of emotion as I could make it. For a second, fear twisted his pitiful expression. I did that. I made him fear me.
“Des, please talk to me.”
“Des?”
I blinked up at mysakana. His handsome face, rich, coffee-colored eyes, and dark shaggy hair replaced the ghost of my past. The look in Seff’s eyes and the small squeeze of his hand said it was time—time to make clear what I would accept as a truce with my brother.
I took a breath and opened my mouth to speak when Deck cut me off.
“So, you don’t care about me? You don’t care about how I think? You don’t care—”
I pinned him with a glare. “You think that my lack of response is because I don’t care about you?”
“You don’t.” He crossed his arms and matched my glare.
I’d made the mistake of engaging with him, of breaking my own ‘say nothing’ mantra. Maybe it was time to clear the air.
“The way I see it, you believe whatever off-the-cuff comment, whatever insult or dig you throw out at me, doesn’t offend me because, as far as you can tell, I’m not upset.”
He blinked. “No, I don’t.”
“I am offended and upset. Often. I don’t understand how you fail to sense it. But—”
