“And what if I don’t want to tell you?”
I reach out without thinking and take hold of his arm. My touch is gentle, but Quinn gasps anyway and comes to a sudden stop. He winces. Clearly, the scratches from that wolf haven’t healed.
“You can, though,” I say, not sure at all about the sudden urgency in my voice. “You can tell me if you want to.”
Quinn just stares at me. His eyes are wide, mouth half-open like he wants to protest but can’t quite work out what to say.
After a moment, he drops his gaze and ducks his head. “There’s nothing to tell,” he says. “I’m sure you know it all, anyway.”
A sketch of it, sure. I don’t want that. I squeeze his arm before I let go. “You can,” I say again. “I mean it.”
“They all say that,” he says, glancing up briefly before he trains his eyes down again. I don’t like that. I want his eyes on me. As much as I don’t like his anger—I don’t think it’s good for him, not how he’s wielding it—I like this nervous submission even less.
“And what if they mean it, too? Why won’t you share with your pack, Quinn? They don’t know you’re out here doing this, do they?”
What little colour is left in his skin entirely drains away. “No,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
“And does it help?”
“What do you mean?”
“The fighting. Does it help?”
Quinn stares at me again, and this time, when he pushes a hand through his hair, it’s shaking. “It’s not—You’re not—” He makes a sound, almost a whine, and my blessing shifts restlessly in my chest, but I keep it corralled. “I need to go home, Asher. Let me go home.”
Home. He’s going back to the pack house, I know that, but is thathome? “I’d like to walk you. Just to be sure you’re okay.”
“No. No, please…”
Every line of his body is pure misery, and ithurtsbecause the anger’s maybe no good, but this is worse. I’ve made thingsworse. All I want to do is help him, and that vague urge I felt earlier in the night has whipped up into something of a frenzy.
Still, I am old enough to have control. “Yeah,” I say, voice a croak. “Okay. Be careful. Please.”
Quinn’s eyes catch on me when I say please, lingering for just a second before he nods and hurries away. I might not be fae, but I try not to lie all the same. I also can’t trust myself, so I remain rooted to the spot until he’s well out of sight, and then consciously force myself to walk in the opposite direction.
The stones sinking in my stomach are heavy. I think I have just made everything much, much worse.
It is late when I arrive back at the base, and Vlad is already waiting for me. Grant gives me a tight smile from the sofa and then ignores every subtle hint Vlad gives him to leave the room, instead turning the pages of his book at a pace that I know means he’s not reading.
“Where have you been?” Vlad says lowly as though Grant somehow will not hear us even though we are all in the same room.
“They moved the entire bloody place,” I reply. I feel nothing but sadness when I think of Quinn, but my temper is spiking, entirely aimed at myself, of course. And maybe the twins. I don’t want to take Quinn’s only outlet away from him, but I meant what I said before—high fae can’t be trusted.
“Pardon? What are you talking about?”
“The pub. Mischief & Mayhem. They just up and moved the whole thing.”
Grant’s book snaps shut. “Like shifted it through space? That’s so—”
“Grant.”
Grant wrinkles his nose and opens his book again. Vlad lets out a gusty sigh.
“You went alone.”
“Yes.”
“Did they see you?”
