I don't want to think about it.
This morning, I push harder than usual. Trying to outrun the memory of blue eyes that saw too much.
My feet pound the wet grass. My lungs burn. My muscles scream.
It doesn't work.
She's still there. Behind my eyes. In my head. That fecking smile as she walked away from me like I was nothing. Like Iwasn't dangerous. Like she'd looked into the dark and found it wanting.
No one looks at me like that.
No oneshouldlook at me like that.
I've killed men for less than the way she challenged me.
I've done things that would make her run screaming if she knew.
I'm not a man—I'm a weapon.
Forged by my father, sharpened by the Brotherhood, aimed wherever the Mackenzies point me.
And she looked at me like I was just a man.
Flesh and blood and something almost human.
I hate her for it.
I hate myself more for wanting her to do it again.
Da's in the kitchen when I get back, standing over the hob with a spatula in one hand and a cup of Barry's in the other.
The smell of rashers and black pudding fills the room, and my stomach growls despite itself.
"Thought I heard you leave." He doesn't turn around. "You're up early. Even for you."
"Couldn't sleep."
"Mm." He flips a rasher, the fat sizzling. "Sit down. I'll have this ready in a minute."
I sit.
Not because he told me to—I'm twenty-eight fecking years old—but because arguing with Rex Malone about breakfast is a battle no one's ever won.
The man's been feeding the Brotherhood soldiers since before I was born.
He takes it personally when people skip meals.
"How's the leg?" I ask.
"Grand."
It's not grand.
He took a bullet to the thigh six months ago, protecting Aleksandr during a business meeting that went sideways.
The doctors said he was lucky it missed the femoral artery.
Da said luck had nothing to do with it—he'd angled his body on purpose, knew exactly where the shot would land.
