Wantis not the word I’d use.
Should, maybe.
“Shouldn’t we wait for Talon?” I ask.
As much as Pain—rightfully so—pointed out his fucked up outbursts and jealousy, Talon’s still part of this little murder club. If we’re doing a recap, he should be here.
Nathaniel glances toward the far corner.
“He’ll be here. He’s… finishing something outside.”
“Outside?” I echo, brows pulling together.
“Yeah,” Cassian says. “We’ve been having some problems while you were out. We figured it’s because you’ve been in one place all this time, but—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Nathaniel cuts in smoothly. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“No, of course it matters.” I fold my arms across my chest. “If it’s about me, I want to know now.”
Nathaniel’s gaze meets mine. “It’s not the most pressing thing.”
I open my mouth to argue—
—but the door to the common area creaks open.
Talon strides in, drenched in sweat, sleeves shoved up his forearms. There’s a streak of something dark smeared along his cheek. It could be dirt. Could be blood. He strips off his gloves and tosses them onto the table beside Cassian with a heavy smack before dropping into a chair like he’s clocking out of a twelve-hour battle shift.
“Sorry I’m late,” he mutters, dragging his wrist across his forehead. “They’re un-fucking-relentless.” He turns toward me. “Welcome back, Little Grim.”
And… his demeanor hits me sideways.
Not in the angry, barbed way I expected.
Not cold. Not bitter. Not resentful.
Worse.
Indifferent.
He’s acting like nothing happened at all. Like I disappeared for half a second and just stepped back into the room before anyone even registered a pause.
The pit in my stomach goes molten.
I don’t know why it bothers me. I thought he was the one leaving those small, soft things for me in the ICU.
Was I wrong?
I lean back into the sofa slowly, watching him without blinking, waiting to see if there’s… anything else. There’s nothing.
“What’s un-fucking-relentless?” I ask finally.
He doesn’t answer right away. He grabs the canteen off the table and downs half of it like he hasn’t had water in hours. His throat works under the swallow. Then he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and finally says, flatly:
“Crows.”
I blink. “Crows?”
“Yeah. Just like last time,” he says—and for some reason he rushes those words, like he’s trying to file the whole issue into nothing to see here. “But they’re different lately. There are more of them. And they’re not random anymore. These bastards are fucking organized.”
