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“You hated writing that report. But that’s even better,” I point out. “Because even though you hated it, you were still doing it for your brother. That’s called being a good brother. That’s what family does for each other.”
Finally, he gives me a reaction.
A twitch in his brows. “Why though?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because I… do.”
Another reaction.
Him moving toward me. Taking a small step but somehow it feels big.
Somehow it feels threatening.
And that doesn’t make sense.
“That’s not an answer, is it?” he says, his eyes flickering with something that I don’t understand.
I’m not proud of it but I do take a step back then.
Again, it’s the tone. It’s his demeanor.
“Reign, I —”
“How about I ask you something else?”
“What?”
“Something that you may have an answer for.”
“Reign, what’s going on? What are you —”
“Did you?” he asks, taking another step forward.
And I hate it but I move back. “Did I what?”
For several seconds, he simply stares at me. He simply roves his reddish-brown eyes all over my face, my body, my pink nightie, my loosened braid.
And it’s not as if he hasn’t done this before.
It’s not as if he hasn’t looked me over a million times since I’ve known him. But he’s never done it how he’s doing it right now.
He’s never done it with raw, unadulterated hatred.
And that’s saying something because for the longest time I thought he hated me. For the longest time I thought his gazes were cruel and cold.
They weren’t.
Not until tonight.
“Reign, what’s —”
“Did you text?”
“What?”
