He’s wedged it open at the bottom with a doorstop. I could leave now. I might not make it out the front door, but I could try. Except, where the hell would I go?
River wants to keep me here so bad he’s built me a cell, but the ironic thing is, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. I don’t want to run anymore. Not from the guys. Fuck it, not even from Zach. I’ve spent years running and I’m sick of it. I don’t want to hide from my brother. I want to find the girl he’s taken and then I want to fucking kill him.
The thought is vicious and unwavering, and it terrifies me.
I step back from the door. I’m not a killer. I can’t be. Iwon’tbe. And yet the darkness lingers at the edges of my mind. Creeping thoughts that say the only way this ends is with one of us dead.
Maybe Ishouldbe locked up.
14
ELI
Istroll into the kitchen and hop up onto the island. “Smells good, Ozzie.”
I snag a pancake out of the basket and tear off a bite. Oz makes them the Scotch way, so they’re sweet enough to eat on their own.
He looks over his shoulder at me from where he stands by the stove and points to the drawer with the spatula. “Get a plate, you cretin.”
My lip quirks at the insult but I humor him and grab a plate from the cupboard.
“How is she?” Oz asks, his tone sober and his back tense.
I lean against the island. “Pretty pissed, but mostly at River.”
He flips the pancakes one at a time. “What do you think the chances are of convincing River not to lock her back up later?”
I wait till he turns to look at me. “Better your head than mine, Ozzie.”
He drops the spatula on the counter and pushes his glasses up, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is wrong.”
Maybe. But I also get where River’s coming from. Is he a possessive, controlling bastard sometimes? Yes. Is he doing it to try and keep Freya safe? Also, yes.
I look at Oz, worry digging lines into his forehead. “Can you honestly say she won’t go off and try to stop Zach by herself if she gets the chance?”
Oz drags his palm over his beard. It’s grown longer and scruffier over the past two months. “No, I can’t,” he admits. “But that doesn’t make it right.”
I don’t have anything to say to that because he’s not wrong. Instead, I just nod at the pan. “Your pancakes are burning.”
“Fudge.” He swiftly grabs them from the stove and turns off the heat.
I use my fork to snag them out of the pan and add them to my plate.
Oz takes me in, his lips quirking at my growing pile of pancakes. “You’re different now, you know. We’re all falling apart but you seem… better.”
I smile. “Freya called me a puppy dog.”
Oz snorts. “When did you become so happy?”
I shrug, my smile dropping. “Maybe when I shot dead the fucker who killed my mother.”
Oz goes quiet.
I stab my fork into a pancake. “It doesn’t make everything better but, I don’t know, it feels like I did right by her I guess.”
Oz crosses his arms and leans against the stove. “You know that doesn’t mean you have to be fine all the time now, right?”
“I know.”
