He stands. Stretches like a cat. All languid grace and hidden claws.
"Thank you for the hospitality," he adds.
He heads for the stairs. Pauses at the bottom, like he's going to say something else. Then he seems to change his mind.
And he goes up the stairs without a word.
Wish he'd just said whatever it was. Don't like not knowing what goes through his head.
Unreadable alpha.
A closed book. Locked and sealed.
A book I might have to rip the spine out of.
Chapter
Forty-Seven
IVY
The diner's neon sign flickers like it's having an existential crisis, making everything a sickly pink that makes Plague look like he's about to commit murder. Which, to be fair, is his default expression whenever Whiskey opens his mouth.
"You're seriously putting ketchup and mustard on your eggs?" Plague's voice drips with the kind of disdain usually reserved for war crimes. "That's barbaric."
Whiskey grins around a mouthful of food, deliberately squirting more ketchup on his plate. "It's fucking delicious is what it is. You should try living a little, Ice Prince."
"I'd rather die."
"That can be arranged."
I take a sip of my coffee—black, bitter, perfect—and watch them over the rim of my mug. We've been here for all of fifteen minutes and they've already argued about the proper way to sit in a booth (Plague insisted on facing the door, Whiskey wanted the corner seat), whether hash browns should be crispy orsoft (another philosophical divide), and now the great ketchup debate.
The weird thing? I'm starting to think this is their version of foreplay.
"Could you two maybe dial back the sexual tension?" I say, cutting into my waffle. "The poor waitress looks traumatized."
Whiskey chokes on his orange juice. Plague goes so still I wonder if he's stopped breathing entirely.
"We don't havesexual tension," Plague says, each word careful and clipped like he's defusing a bomb.
"Right." I drag the word out, watching the way Plague's jaw tightens when Whiskey's knee bumps his under the table. "That's why you've mentioned three times that Whiskey chews too loud."
"He does chew too loud."
"And why Whiskey keeps 'accidentally' touching your hand when he reaches for the salt."
"The salt's on his side of the table."
"It's really not."
Whiskey's grinning now, that shit-eating grin that probably gets him both laid and punched in equal measure. "Aw, you notice when I touch you?"
"I notice when you invade my personal space like a fucking golden retriever with boundary issues," Plague snaps, but there's a flush creeping up his neck that has nothing to do with the diner's questionable heating system.
God, they're exhausting. And kind of adorable. In a dysfunctional, probably-going-to-kill-each-other way.
The waitress, Betty, refills my coffee without being asked. She's got that particular skill of diner waitresses everywhere—knowing when to appear and when to make herself scarce. Right now, she's definitely choosing scarce.
