My stomach turns itself inside out. “I wasn’t—I mean, I don’t?—”
“It’s fine.” He sets his controller down in his lap, never looking away from me. “Everyone wonders. Most people just stare and pretend they’re not curious. You’ve been pretty good about not doing that, actually.”
I set my own controller down carefully, suddenly very fixated on my bandaged hands. “I really wasn’t going to ask. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“Car accident,” he says simply. “Eight years ago. Black ice on the highway. Car flipped.”
The chopping sounds from the kitchen have stopped. I wonder if Bastian can hear us.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, at a loss for more eloquent words.
Sage shrugs. “It is what it is. Could’ve been worse. Could’ve died.” He picks up his controller again. “Bastian blames himself, obviously. Because he’s Bastian and that’s what he does.”
“He was driving?” I ask quietly.
He nods. “Yep.”
Bam-bam-bam.More bullets, more blood. I’ve died once again.
“He’s a good driver, too,” Sage adds. “It really wasn’t his fault. Try telling him that, though.”
Out of nowhere, I have a sudden and un-asked-for glimpse into a waking nightmare. Weeks upon weeks of dark hospital rooms, beeping monitors. Cold sweat beading on Sage’s forehead as he struggles to shove himself upright in bed. Bastian’s jaw clenching so tight that teeth crack and muscles lock up as he sits by his brother’s side and waits, watches, useless, helpless.
It all hits like a fist to the gut and leaves me reeling on the couch. On screen, my character dies again and again. I don’t bother moving.
Bastian emerges from the kitchen carrying three bowls of ahi tuna over jasmine rice. He hands one to Sage, then sets mine on the coffee table within reach.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
He nods silently as he settles into the armchair across from us with his own bowl. We eat in silence. It’s delicious, of course. Tangy soy sauce, a chili oil sprinkled on top, tuna with a perfect brown sear and insides as pink as sunrise.
I sneak glances at Bastian between bites. His face has returned to its usual resting scowl, but there’s a tightness around his eyes that wasn’t there before. When we finish, he collects the bowls without a word and disappears back into the kitchen. I hear water running, dishes clinking. He returns a moment later, hands shoved in his pockets. “I’ll take you home now.”
Sage looks between us, clearly wanting to say something, but wisely keeps his mouth shut.
“Okay.” I push myself up from the couch. My knee protests, but it’s bearable now. “Bye, Sage. It was nice to meet you.”
He waves goodbye without looking.
We ride the elevator down silently. We get in the car silently. We drive across town silently. And when we pull up in front ofmy building, we do it silently. Bastian puts the car in park but doesn’t kill the engine.
“Thanks for lunch,” I say. “And for the first aid. And for, you know, not leaving me bleeding on the sidewalk.”
His lips twitch. But he says nothing.
I wish he would. AnI’ll always protect youwould be amazing, because no one has ever said that to me before. Even a simple, gruffYou’re welcomewould be enough, as long as it felt like he meant it.
He doesn’t give me any of that, though. He just nods and stares out of the front windshield. He leaves me to open the car door all on my own.
40
ELIANA
but·cher: /'bo?oCH?r/: verb
1: to slaughter and prepare meat; to break down an animal into its component parts.
2: what Bastian does to any man who dares to touch you.
