None of my matches has ever implied that I was responsible for Asher’s death, but the secrets I’m keeping have only been accumulating.
If he found out the truth, Cole would be the first to throw me out of our apartment. Through the window rather than the door, most likely.
Naturally, right as I’m thinking that, my phone vibrates in my back pocket.
My teeth set on edge. There’s only one person who’d be calling me who isn’t in this room, and I told him today was off limits.
Well, Uncle Nik can go choke on a chupacabra for all I care.
Without looking at the screen, I turn the phone right off like I should have to begin with and toss it onto the sofa where I don’t even have to see it.
“Problem?” Salvatore asks, with the darkly eager tone that tells me he’d be more than happy to take care of whatever problem it is, by whatever means necessary.
I shake my head. “Just a spam call.”
I’m a lying liar who lies. That’s just the way it has to be.
We cluster around the wobbly table while Salvatore stirs the herbed tomato soup he made that was one of Asher’s favorite foods, sets the grilled cheese sandwiches into the frying pan to sizzle, and pulls the strawberry rhubarb pie out of the oven.
“A man of simple tastes,” he joked way back when Cole first told him what Asher’s ideal meal would have been.
Byron pulls out my chair for me as if we’re at a fancy restaurant rather than our dingy apartment. He fusses over folding my napkin just right even though I’ll be unfolding it in five minutes to stick it on my lap. When he sits down, he reclaims my hand and kisses it as if he’s worried he hasn’t been doting enough.
The understated devotion of every gesture wraps around my heart. I summon a smile, tight but meant.
If Cole was judging me before, he’s let his concerns go. He comes up behind me and strokes his fingers down the longwaves of my hair. A pleasant shiver travels under my skin, penetrating the haze of pain and loss that’s thickest on this day.
“One day at a time,” he says, a mantra that I think is for himself as much as for me. He may be in even more pain than I am—or at least, his is purer.
The dagger inside me manages to twist even deeper. I raise my free hand to caress Cole’s arm in turn, as if I can communicate how much he matters to me with a touch.
My brilliant, relentless match deserved so much better than this too.
Cole catches my fingers and clasps them, his thumb tracing soft patterns over my knuckles. He releases me only when Salvatore saunters over with our bowls of soup.
Our self-appointed chef manages to sound solemn in his proclamation. “Asher’s memorial dinner is served.”
Salvatore brings the plate heaped with bisected grilled cheese sandwiches as well, and he and Cole take their seats. The creamy tomato smell fills my nose.
It’s delicious, but my gut cringes away. Each spoonful goes down harder.
Salvatore notices my expression and frowns. “Are you holding up all right, mia amata?”
The tender nickname sends a pang straight through my chest. What would I do without these three men?
I shore up my determination to tell my biggest lie and my most important truth. “I’m okay. I just… I love all of you, so much.”
Byron’s expression softens. “You know how much we all love you, Precious. You should never?—”
A sudden roar of sound blares through my skull, cutting off the rest of his sentence.
A surge of energy rams into me. I jolt partway off my chair. Every particle of my body, from my scalp to my toes, jangles wildly.
What in the nine circles of Hell…?
A cry slips from my lips. I grope toward my matches, toward the table, toward anything. The men have sprung up, their shouts bouncing off the ceiling.
Another jolt slams through my nerves, hard enough to fragment my vision and coat my tongue with the flavor of ash.
