Rafe clears his throat. “Power’s stable for now. Generator’s full. We’ve got food for . . . plenty.”
“Plenty,” I echo, forcing a smile. “Wonderful. I’m thrilled to be trapped in a snow globe with my husband.”
Lorenzo’s eyes flick to my mouth, then back up. “Try not to sound too excited.”
Rafe shifts, gaze dropping to the floor. “I’ll check the perimeter,” he tells Lorenzo before disappearing down the hall.
I lift my chin, meeting Lorenzo’s gaze head-on. “This was planned.”
His brow arches. “You think I control the weather now?”
“I think you control everything you can,” I shoot back, stepping around the coffee table like I’m circling a predator. “And when you can’t control something, you pretend it’s a coincidence.”
He watches me move with slow interest. “You’re giving me a lot of credit.”
“You like getting credit for things.” I stop near the mantel. “Must be your love language.”
His eyes glint. “You’re still talking. That must be yours.”
I inhale slowly, forcing my body to unclench.
He sets his glass down on the sideboard, then rolls his shoulders. “Drink?”
I stare at the second glass he’s already poured . . . red wine, dark enough that it almost looks like blood.
“I’m not drinking with you,” I hiss.
His head tilts. “Scared you’ll start enjoying it?”
“Scared you’ll poison me,” I retort.
A low sound vibrates out of him. A laugh, and it’s a genuine one, and I hate that I like the sound. “There she is.”
I don’t move toward the wine. Instead, I move to leave because I need space.
Distance will do me some good right now. If I stay, I might forget why I don’t like him.
I take one step, but my feet halt when I see something that looks like pain flicker across Lorenzo’s face.
I watch him for a beat as he shifts his weight. I wonder what’s bothering him, but then his hand goes to his side, and it looks like he winces.
“Are you—?” The words catch in my throat, unwanted. “Are you hurt?”
His eyes lift, sharp. “No.”
My gaze continues to look at his hand, eyes narrowing. Something is on his sweater. It almost looks like a faint stain near his rib. It’s dark . . .
Blood.
My pulse jumps, and he catches me noticing.
His jaw tightens. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s bleeding,” I snap.
He takes a slow breath. “It’s handled.”
I point at the stain. “Handled by what? Or better question, by who? Your ego?”
