Bullshit.
I narrow my eyes at her, trying to unravel her nervousness.
She swipes her purple hair from her face and skitters away. Off to the storeroom.
I go back to my seat. Sin sits nearby for a while. We’re on the same page. His attention tracks every one of Wren’s exits the same way I do.
Saint brings Wren a light lunch at the end of the bar, standing behind her as Pixie tries to shoo him off. He straightens, glowering down at her until she backs off. That’s some gumption, trying to order the bossman around.
Even if he’s hovering too much. He can’t see what I see.
Saint whispers into Wren’s ear, and she looks up at him with a soft smile.
This can’t be so serious. She hasn’t avoided any physical intimacy other than the need to take it easy on her. Wren has been tired.
Exhaustion is a symptom, not a diagnosis.
Saint settles behind her, rubbing her arms and shoulders and dropping kisses in her hair as she nibbles on her food. He watches every bite like it matters. Stays there until he’s satisfied before taking her plate away.
It’s not fifteen minutes before her hand is on her stomach again. A bug?
I approach before she scampers away, and Pixie steps between us.
Okay. This is starting to piss me off.
“Pixie.” I grind her name between my molars. “Move.”
“Oh. Is that how you talk to me now?” Pixie plants her hands on her hips, glaring up at me. There’s no malice in it, even though she’s trying to fake it.
The move gives Wren enough time to slip away.
My hands curl into fists as frustration swells into anger. Wren is hiding something, and Pixie is helping her. When I narrow it on Pixie, she flinches before she thrusts her chin out.
I’m going to figure this out. There’s no more reason to keep secrets.
“Go back to work,” I say, the effort to keep my voice even must show because her eyes flash at me.
“Don’t tell me what to do. I’m no sweetbutt. I’m a member. Don’t you forget it.” Her nostrils flare, and it takes a beat before she pivots on the spot and storms toward the back.
I give it a few seconds before I follow, cornering her in the back hallway. Wren isn’t in the laundry room where she’s taken to hiding. Not in the storage room, so it’s easy to trap Pixie there when she takes the detour. I don’t bother closing the door.
No need. She’s not running anymore.
She jumps when she sees me, a small flash of panic crosses her features. Her mouth opens—like she’s about to say something—and then snaps shut.
I lower my tone, trying to stem the anger. To remain clinical. “Pix, I need the truth. Something is going on with Wren, and if you know what it is, you need to tell me.”
She backs up, crossing her arms. Her chin is up again with her refusal to talk.
I bite back my reactions and force myself to soften. “I’m not her enemy. I’m her doctor. Her family. Tell me what you know.”
She presses her mouth into a firm line.
The tension in the room changes as Pixie’s eyes widen at something over my shoulder. She stiffens at the shadow in the doorway behind me. Her breath hitches. A crate shifts behind her heel with a hollow thud.
It’s Sin, his silent fuming like a wave rolling through the storeroom.
Her eyes dart around. There’s not another exit here other than the one Sin is standing in. She’s fully trapped. This is no longer a simple conversation.
