“I’m not hungry,” I tell him, wavering. I think of the plate of roast chicken and almost run back to the bathroom to hurl.
Glen squeezes my shoulder, leading me to the sofa. “Just try it. We’ve got a bit of everything. Just grab whatever takes your fancy.”
Matt, who hasn’t changed out of his stained suit, swoops in and grabs a box at random, heading for the balcony. “I’ll keep guard,” he mutters.
“For what?” I snap, my voice cold. “He’s gone.”
He pauses in the doorway, then slides open the glass pane and steps outside.
“You want the black bean noodles?” Kenta offers me a box. “Spring rolls?”
I shake my head, pressing my face into Glen’s neck and sucking up his scent.
Kenta sits down next to me. I might be imagining it, but he looks shockingly pale. “You lost blood, sweetheart. And you threw up everything in your stomach. You should eat something.”
“I still feel sick.”
“Just some plain rice, then.” He leans over to scoop some onto a plate. “It might make you feel better.”
Glen rubs his scratchy cheek against mine, and I feel something tightening in my throat. My lip starts to wobble. Kenta hands me the small portion of rice. I take it, lift the fork to my mouth—then immediately burst into tears.
Glen holds me tighter. “Oh, Briar.”
“It’s not fair!” I shout. It’s like a dam has collapsed inside of me, and I’m suddenly being swamped with emotion. Withanger.“I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“You didn’t,” they both soothe.
I wave my hand at the balcony door. “Then why the Hell is he hiding from me?! Why is he acting like Imessed up?Why am I getting the silent treatment?!”
Kenta pauses. “Wait. You mean Matt?”
“I gotstabbedand he won’thold me.” I grit my teeth, wiping my cheeks angrily.
The men share a look. “He’s scared,” Kenta says.
“He’sscared.” I stand up, dropping my plate onto the table with a loud clatter. “This man was in the SAS, but he’s too much of a coward to give me a hug?I’mscared, too, for God’s sake. I thought he cared about that!”
“I think he understands guns a lot more than his own feelings,” Kenta says ruefully.
“I don’t care!” Flicking back my damp hair, I stomp over to the terrace and shove open the sliding door. Matt is sitting in a garden chair, staring out over the skyline. LA glitters below us, full of brightly coloured lights.
“You’re keeping watch on the balcony?” I bite out. “Isn’t that a sniper risk, or something?”
He turns and looks at me. A jolt runs through me as his cool eyes meet mine. For a few seconds, we just stare at each other. I try to sort through the emotions blowing through my mind. Hurt, that he isn't talking to me. Anger, that he lied to me. Relief, that he’s okay.
Love, drawing me into him like I’m a shell caught in a tide.
I scowl, shoving the feeling down. “I’m really cold,” I mutter.
“It’s an anxiety response,” he says slowly. “Adrenaline forces blood to your internal organs so you can defend yourself more efficiently. The loss of circulation can make you feel cold.”
I snort. “Yeah, thanks, WebMD.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I’mcold,” I repeat.
“Do you want to go back inside?”
“No.”
He shifts, tugging at his rumpled, dirty tux. “Want my jacket?”
