Wylder’s fork clatters to the tablecloth. I study him closer and realize he’s not as unmoved as he’s making himself out to be. His lips are thin, his cheeks pale.
No. He hates this. He fucking hates it.
So why isn’t he saying anything?
Because this is how he was raised,my mind whispers.To not stir trouble.To keep everything moving smoothly. To never reveal how he truly feels.
If that’s true, then it makes me unbelievably mad.
And sad.
I might not have been raised with love, but no one stifled me. I was wild, free, untethered. With Wylder, even if he is moored, I’m starting to suspect he was missing love and the freedom to be himself.
Samson stabs his knife into the meat and brings it up to his mouth, pulling it off with a gnash of his teeth. “They obviously didn’t teach her anything, given she’s rude as fuck.” Candace’s lips part as Samson turns toward her and holds the knife out, pointing it at her. “Do you know what happens to rude people in this house?”
Her eyes flick to the blade he’s pointing at her while he chews noisily.
When she doesn’t answer, he smiles. Given how rarely he does so, it’s oddly sinister. “I cut them up and bury them in the backyard.”
Wylder’s knuckles whiten on his knife. He exhales slowly. It’s killing him not to intervene. Not to take control of the situation.
How is no one else noticing this? Is it because this is how Wylder’s always been?
Candace is done with letting him sit in silence. She calls his name, and he finally looks up. “Yes?”
“Your brother just threatened me.”
“Did he?” Wylder asks, taking a sip of his wine. When he puts the glass down, I grab the bottle and refill his glass. He shoots me a thankful look before turning his exhaustion-heavy gaze back in Candace’s direction. “I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Were you not listening?”
He sighs and dabs his napkin against his lips before placing it back in his lap.
“I admit, I was not.” Then he turns his attention to Samson, who is shoveling food into his mouth.
“Did you threaten my girlfriend?” he asks, and Samson shrugs.
“Just told her to stop being rude to the chef.”
Wylder sighs again and looks at Candace. “Were you rude to Jules again?”
Her jaw tightens, and she sits up a little straighter. “I’m allowed an opinion.”
“Not really,” Jackson says, and Dalton puts his arm around the back of his chair, nodding in support. Across the table, Wyatt’s eyes narrow.
This is like a fucking soap opera. With my food finished, I pick up my glass and lean back in my seat, watching it all unfold. Dinner, a show, and the best damned champagne I’ve ever tasted. What more could I want?
Other than for Wylder not to be upset about this.
“And why should I take the word of a toddler?” she snaps at Jackson.
Jackson reddens. “I’m almost twenty.”
“A baby. Honestly,” Candace scoffs.
Dalton growls, his arm drawing tighter around Jackson. “He’s not a child. And he has more sense than you.”
“Damn straight,” Wyatt says, earning a small squeeze from Matthias. He might not like how Dalton is touching his brother, but his ire at Candace is clearly greater.
