He holds up a hand, cutting me off. “It’s not meant as an insult.”
Levi looks at Ezra. “You’re always insulting him, Ezy.”
Ezra shrugs. “It’s only the truth, Dove. Alaric’s been hiding, thinking he’s worthless without Oscar.”
Shit.
“You’re such an asshole,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair.Except he’s right, so maybe we’re the assholes.
Koen doesn’t reply, but the gears are clearly turning in his head as he processes the information. Eventually, his face softens, but there’s still a hardness in his eyes as he addresses Ezra. “We’re not replacing him.”
“I know that.” Ezra shrugs again. “Buthedoesn’t. I’m not lucky enough to get rid of that kid. All that boy needs is reassurance. You tell him he’s not being replaced, that she’s simply the means to an end, and as soon as he believes you, he’ll help.”
Koen drops his gaze to the floor for a moment, biting his lip, and I take the opening to tell him what I’m thinking. “He’s right. My impression yesterday was the same. He’s… hurt, not angry.”
Koen glances up at me, his mouth twitching in annoyance. “Huh.”
I grin, unable to resist. “Oh, is this the first time you misread someone’s body language, Mr. Mentalist?”
Levi chuckles from beside me, clearly enjoying the dig.
“Fuck you.” Koen glares at me, but there’s no real heat behind it.
“Happens to the best of us, brother.” Levi slaps his twin on the back. “Come on, let’s eat something and figure out what to say to him.”
“You do that.” I grab Ezra by the arm and drag him toward the gym. He doesn’t resist, letting me pull him along, his usual calm composure firmly in place.
“Is this training, or do you have something to get off your mind?” he asks as we enter the gym.
“The latter,” I mutter, throwing a few half-hearted jabs at the air.
“Come on…” Ezra heads for the sandbag and throws me the boxing gloves, which I pull on before he steps behind it. “I’m not going to get my face pummeled again because you’ve got demons to deal with.”
I snort, but it’s humorless. He’s right. I need to hit something that won’t get hurt and won’t hit back.
Squaring up to the sandbag, fists clenched, I start pounding into it. Each punch is hard, fast, and deliberate. The impact sends shockwaves through my body, but it’s not enough.Nothing is enough.
Not until I figure this out.
Not until I figureherout.
Ezra’s gaze is heavy on me as he asks, “Does this have anything to do with that split lip you’re sporting?”
“No.” I keep punching the bag, but the lie hangs in the air, a heavy weight. Of course, it has to do with the split lip. Only not with the guy who gave it to me, but the reason behind it. I punch the sandbag harder, my knuckles already starting to sting.
Ezra doesn’t buy it. “You’re fucking lying.”
I grit my teeth, throwing one last hard punch at the bag before steadying it and resting my gloves against it. “Maybe.”
Ezra has been able to read me like a goddamn book since the day he pulled me out of the shit I got myself into. I was sixteen and breached systems that no one my age had any business touching—hell, thatanyonehad any business touching.
It started small, innocent even.
If you call hacking innocent.
I was a kid trying to get my hands on unreleased games, find cheat codes, and sell access to servers that gave players god-like powers. It was all a game to me back then, walking through walls in a virtual world, bending the rules. I wasn’t doing it for money, not at first. I did it for the rush, for the control.
Then I got cocky, poking around in places I had no business being. I hacked into an email account linked to a game developer, thinking I’d find more game code or maybe some juicy company secrets. Instead, I stumbled onto a secure server.
