He clocked that reaction with a smirk of his own. “Aw, cheer up, darling. As long as I’m alive, you still have to tolerate me.”
I rolled my eyes.
“And hey, as a bonus prize, if I die, this castle of dust”—he spread his arms to indicate the house—“can go to the girl who would most enjoy my death.”
“I’m sure there are some who’d enjoy it more than me.”
His smirk turned wry.
A moment passed in which we stared at each other, and unlike all the other Thursdays, I hesitated to leave. “So that’s the last will and testament of Lucas Scott?”
“Mm. A celebratory document the nation over, I’m sure.”
I patted him on the shoulder. “Sad little murderer. No one likes him.”
His expression flickered, his lips pressed together, and I startled when a smile broke over his face like sunshine emerging from heavy rain clouds. Real and bright. Even teeth. Shallow dimples.
And then he laughed. Pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes squeezed shut, he laughed.
He just…laughed.
Logic told me he was made of flesh and blood and therefore capable of the full range of emotion, but this introduced a whole new side to him. I didn’t want or need this proof that he was human.
“Your mouth is going to get you killed,” he said.
Despite my suddenly pounding heart, I shrugged as if I routinely stood at Hunters’ doorsteps to witness their fits of hilarity.
Vivid eyes found mine, full of mirth, sparkling like the Caribbean Sea. “I have something for you.”
“Morepresents?”
Motioning for me to follow him into the night, he led me to the side of the house, where a bicycle leaned against the brick.He wheeled it to me. “They can’t catch you if you’re faster than them.”
He brought me a bike? I never bothered to check one out from headquarters because the walk was so short. Lucas, however, had no way of knowing that, and even if he did, I suspected he’d prefer me on the bike.
I stared, mystified by this further evidence that my safety mattered a great deal to him. “Why are you so obsessed with my being caught?”
“Call it a personality flaw,” he said without looking at me.
The bike was a simple black cruiser, one speed with a coaster brake. “This is in good condition. Where’d you get it?”
“It’s mine.”
I glanced at him, but he refused to look at me. The evening air around us was cool, scented of flowers and petrichor from the rain earlier. A half-moon lent only tinges of silvery luminosity to his face. I could barely make out his expression, but his eyes? His eyes picked up the low light, and in my silence, they finally darted in my direction.
“I can’t take your bike,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows, all stern like he was about to start bossing me around again.
“It’s just,” I said before he could start, “why would you give me this?” My chest burned with a flaming desire to understand his motives and grasp his objectives. I wanted to knowwhy. All the whys. I needed them.
My focus bounced between him and the bike.
“Shut up and take the bike, Sophia.” He said it like a plea, a friend begging another to do something for their own good.
My stubbornness reared, and I crossed my arms. “Don’t tell me to shut up.”
Something changed. His stance, maybe. Or perhaps the sharpness of his expression. Or maybe part of me was hard-wired to respond to internal changes in him—a protective instinct brought on by the danger he represented.
