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I stop before him and tip my head to the side. “Dylan?”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
I lick my lips and glance away, scrunching my face. “Which one?”
His chuckle is dark and delicious. “You know which one.”
My throat goes dry.Do you have a crush on me?
Fuck.
With a sigh, I meet his eyes again. “No, Dylan. I don’t have a crush on you.”
His features darken, and one perfectly dark eyebrow arches, disappearing into the hair that’s covering his forehead. Hair I want to push away. Uncrossing his arms, he shifts to the side, giving me just enough room to pass.
I eye him and the space.Don’t be a chickenshit, Quinn. I take the first step across the threshold, but that’s as far as I get before his arms fall on either side of my body, trapping me between him and the doorway.
His nose brushes over my ear, and my entire body trembles. I pinch my eyes closed and try to focus on anything but the way he smells and how good it feels to be at his mercy. “Liar,” he whispers.
“Dylan.”
My eyes fly open, expecting Brady, but it’s Austin staring at me with curiosity more than annoyance. I swallow and try to breathe, but I’m suffocating in their scents. It’s horrible and wonderful all at the same time.
Austin and Dylan share a look and, slowly, Dylan’s hands fall away, releasing me. A soft whine fills the space between us, and I slap my hand over my mouth, dying a little on the inside. Without looking back, I run away from both of them and up the grand staircase, shutting myself in my room. Hiding. Trembling.Aching.
They don’t come to check on me.
And it hurts me more than it should.
Twenty-Five
AUSTIN
I once watched a documentary about predators. They’d stalk their prey, and without fail, whenever the prey realized they were being hunted, it was too late. Most times they’d run, fleeing as fast as they could but never managing to get away. The way Dylan watches Quinn run away reminds me of a predator setting in for chase.
He closes the front door and meanders to my side, watching the stairs like Quinn might reappear. “You saw that, right?”
“What I saw,” I say, side-eyeing him, “was you cornering her.”
“Really? That’s all you saw?” He shakes his head. “Come on, Austin. You know what I mean.”
I run my hand over my jaw. There are a lot of things I don’t understand when it comes to Quinn. Like, why does Brady hate her so much? Why hasn’t she found a pack? Why doesn’t she stand up for herself?
Then there are things I understand that shouldn’t make any sense. The way her gaze lingers on Brady. The way she trembled, not with fear but excitement, as Dylan pressed in close. The wayshe can’t seem to breathe easy whenever the three of us are around. The way her perfume smelled like me.
Something is going on.
“I think we need to talk to Brady,” I finally say.
We find him in the living room, leafing through Quinn’s scrapbook. He stares at a page, one covered in images of a violent, stormy sea, for a few seconds, not even acknowledging our presence. Brady is a lot of things—stubborn, abrasive, controlling—but he’s never curious, at least, not when it comes to Quinn.
I drop onto the couch beside him, but Dylan paces the room. His muscles are bunched tight, ready to beat something—or Brady—into submission.
“So.” I stretch my legs, taking up space, so they’ll focus on me and not each other. “About Quinn.”
“What about her?” Brady asks, snapping the scrapbook closed and carefully setting it on the table. If he truly hated her, he wouldn’t be so gentle.
“Don’t try to pretend like nothing is going on.” I gesture at the book with my chin. “Why are you so concerned with Quinn’s nest vision boards?”
