There’s nothing dramatic or cruel about the way he’s behaving, but it hurts.
Before now, we’d had moments. Nothing particularly meaningful or deep, but we used to at least spend time in each other’s presence, doing things side by side.
He’d lean in the doorway while I chopped vegetables, or sit across from me at the table while I drank tea and worked on the baby blanket, and he cleaned a rifle with meticulous care. He used to walk with me along the fence line.
We used to talk about random things, like how he likes his coffee or about my life in the city.
Now, when I reach for a mug in the kitchen, and my arm brushes his sleeve, he steps back like he’s touched a hot stove.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
He nods once. “All good.”
No warmth. No connection. Nothing.
I’m still wrestling with the frustration of it all later, when I go down to restock towels in the lower-level bathroom and find Silas alone in the ops center. He’s standing at the map table, hands braced on the edge. I stop inside the doorway.
“What do you need?” His tone is flat, and he doesn’t look up.
“I need you to talk to me.”
No reaction. After several painful seconds pass, I’m about to turn and leave when he finally straightens and faces me. “I’m working.”
“You’re shutting me out.”
He looks back down at the table, not even acknowledging the accusation. My pulse starts to pound, and I hug the stack of towels to my chest. “What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why does it feel like you closed a door in my face?”
He looks at me with an expression that’s characteristically impossible to read. “I’m not going to be part of whatever arrangement Andrew and Boyd think they’ve negotiated,” he says evenly.
“Negotiated?”
“I’m not interested in being folded into a situation like an afterthought.”
My chest tightens. “Is that really what you think?”
“IthinkI wasn’t invited into the conversation.”
“I thought you and I were having our own conversation,” I say.
He holds my gaze for a long moment, his eyes growing darker with each second of silence that passes. “That was a mistake,” he says quietly.
Something inside me cracks, and I turn before he can study its effects on my face, like he always does. “Fine. Thank you for clearing that up.”
I leave without waiting for a reply. One probably isn’t coming, anyway.
The next day, Atlas insists I go to see Dr. Navarro. He frames it as routine, but I know better. He’s worried about my mood and about the effects of the stress caused by Preston’s media appearances.
It’s those same media appearances that make it crucial I disguise myself again, and that prevent us from going anywhere except the clinic. It would be nice to visit Moon Ridge’s restaurant again, and maybe to have the opportunity to run into Elena Ramirez, but we can’t increase the risk of anyone recognizing me now thatmy face is in the news.
The photo of me that’s out there is with a face that’s heavily made-up, as Preston preferred me, so the natural no-makeup look I’ve been wearing these days is a great contrast. Hidden beneath the dark brown wig, I feel unrecognizable, and hope that’s the case.
Once I’m dressed in outerwear, Boyd checks the perimeter and escorts me to the truck that Andrew’s been warming up. Not surprisingly, Viper’s staying at the compound.
“You okay?” Boyd asks, once I’m seated in the back.
