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"But what?" I asked, my sympathy waning. "What could have been more important than seeing your dying sister?"
A muscle in his jaw jumped. "I don't need judgement from you, Jules. I've got enough guilt to last me a million lifetimes."
The raw pain etched into his face cut deep.
I touched his shoulder. "Then explain it to me. Make me understand."
"Caitlin said Jen was getting better."
I blinked, unsure if I'd heard him correctly. "What?"
"Caitlin—I don't know if she believed it or just wanted it to be true. But last I spoke to her, she said Jen was getting better and to stay away. That the old man wouldn't—" He cut himself off, shaking his head.
"And Jen?" I asked. "What about her?"
He sighed, tilting his head back to look at the sky. "She told me to stay away. Said she didn't want to cause a fuss."
I pinched the bridge of my nose with my free hand, mentally cursing my best friend. "That sounds like her. Stoic and determined until the end.”
We were silent for a beat, and then Pope moved, his body a rapid burst of violent motion. The bottle in his hand flew through the air to smash into one of the trees, the spray of glass and liquid surprisingly satisfying.
"Fuck!" he roared, twisting to pound fists into the picnic table. "Fuck!"
A small part of me cowered at his unrestrained pain. It urged me to soothe and simper until his jagged edges were polished and civilised once more.
But a larger part of me longed to join in, to give over to the warring crash of chaotic violence. My arm moved of its own volition, drawing back to let my beer fly. It hit the same tree exploding on impact.
My breath skipped, a joyous rage blooming in my chest as I watched the shimmering glass fall to the ground.
I heard a noise, a savage, brutal sound. Glancing at Pope, I found him watching me—his gaze dark, his expression hungry and wild. I twisted away from him, instinct urging me to run, but he caught my hand, yanking me against his chest.
Run!
I pressed my hands to his shoulders, shoving back as he bent his head. Twisting, I struggled to escape the prison of his arms.
"What are you doing?" I demanded, fighting for freedom.
"Making you feel better."
His lips captured mine, his mouth rough, hot, and possessive. He took advantage of my surprised gasp, his tongue slipping between my parted lips to taste the inside of my mouth.
Pope.
He surrounded me, overwhelmed me. His arms held me tight, his body anchored against mine.
How did this—?
He made a noise—a groaning grunt so primal and filled with male satisfaction it sizzled from my head to my toes.
And hearing it, my helpless grief morphed into a frenzied, angry need. The tension between us crackled with violent despair.
Giving in to the need to hurt, to rend, to dominate, I bit his bottom lip needing to inflict pain. My teeth pierced his skin, and I relished the metallic taste of blood on my tongue as Pope jerked back, cursing.
"You fucking minx." He pressed a hand to his lip. A drop of blood coloured his fingers, the moon lighting the dark liquid.
"What’re you gonna do about it?" I asked, lashing out like a hurt animal–daring him to retaliate.
He wiped his fingers against his jean leg, his lips curling into a feral grin. "Don't worry, babe. I'll make you pay."
