ASHER.
I slouched over the counter; my fingers curled around the stove knob.
Click. Click. Click.
I let the gas spill out just enough to catch flame, then I cut it. Each spark echoed like a reminder that no match had come in twelve months. The itch was already back, to burn things, along with myself.
I kept my bandaged palm hidden. Fallon had noticed it already, though he’d said nothing. I welcomed the most recent burn’s radiating dull ache; at least it was something tangible when every Eros update had been a dead end. How long had we waited? Forever. More than a mother fucking year. Xander had called us all together before to talk about the Institute. The first few times, I’d let myself hope. Now, I didn’t.
Click. Click. Click.
I hesitated in the middle of the next click of the ignitor, letting gas spill out without a flame to spark it.
I waited long enough that when I did edge the knob into position, the flame erupted six inches over the burner, pulsing heat against my skin.
“Going to light it properly or just torture us?” Nitro’s growl cut through the air. He held the knife up, poised to slam it down again and ruin another bit of the butcher block.
I flashed him a grin as hollow as my chest. “Just seeing who snaps first. Congratulations, you’re in the lead.”
He bristled but stayed silent. I pressed on, each click scratching that invisible itch.
“Xander ever fucking getting here, or is he playing a prank?” This from Kane, perched on a barstool, hands dicking around with a beat-up car part.
“Xander doesn’t do that kind of shit,” I retorted, leaning down and putting my face perilously close to the clicking. Just a centimeter more to the right and it would ignite. I let the glass bleed out again, ready to light myself on fire.
KANE.
I’d counted forty-seven clicks since I’d walked in and sat down. The smell of gas was intensifying. If Asher was set on blowing up the place, he was well on his way.
I rolled the spare engine part between my grease-coated fingers, tracing its grooves. It wasn’t the piece I’d hunted for at Otto’s junkyard, but it was enough to keep me busy—and sane—while we all waited for Xander. Rolling my shoulders, I felt layers of dried muck crack. I’d skipped showering after getting home. The grime felt like armor.
Armor like Asher’s bandaged hand, Nitro’s mutilated counter, Fallon’s stoic control—all signs of us fraying at the edges but trying to hide the truth.
I wanted to be under a car right now. I wanted to focus on problems that came down to finding the right part and installing it. That method wouldn’t work with our pack. We couldn’t go to AutoWorld and grab a new Alpha timing belt to get our engine back in rhythm. Hell, there wasn’t even a human catalytic converter we could install to help convert the toxic build-up inside our bodies.
Frustration pulsed through me and I curled my hand around the part. I clenched hard enough that it dug painfully into my palm. When the ache dulled, I tightened my grip to renew the discomfort.
I’m alive. We’re all still alive.
We just had to keep going, full of bad oil and out of sync, limping from one destination to the next while hoping we didn’t have a complete breakdown.
Shit. If only humans were like cars. If only we could hook ourselves up to a diagnostic machine, pinpoint the problem, and shop for a solution.
NITRO.
I slammed the tip of my knife into the countertop wood again, driving it deep into the wood before yanking it free. The solid thunk of metal penetrating wood was satisfying in a way that nothing else had been tonight. My body still hummed with restless energy, my mind replaying the image of scattered blades and the destroyed target.
Thunk. Pull. Thunk. Pull.
Across the room, Asher's incessant clicking grated on my last nerve, but I bit back another comment. Starting a fight wouldn't help, though my body craved the release of physical confrontation. I caught Fallon watching me from his position by the fireplace, his gaze cool and assessing. Though they were fading, I could still see the memory of small bruises on his skin. They showed anywhere clothes didn’t cover. He’d visited the dominatrix again.
We were all spiraling, each in our own way.
Thunk. The knife went particularly deep this time, and I had to twist it to free the blade. The counter was already a mess of scars and gouges from similar moments of frustration. Kane would bitch about it tomorrow and give me shit about having to replace it yet again. But tonight, he was too absorbed in whatever car part he was fidgeting with to care about the counter.
I twirled the knife between my fingers, a habitual motion that usually centered me. Tonight, it just reminded me of my failuresat the target. I drove the blade in again, harder, imagining it was my own weakness I was stabbing.
Thunk. Thunk. Xander better get here fucking fast or I’d split the countertop in two tonight. I wouldn’t stop until it was well and truly ruined. Then that asshole could have it replaced again, and I’d have a brand-new flawless surface to fuck up.
