“You loving Mayet is how the rest of us grew brave enough to try something similar.” Micah glances over his shoulder, his dark green eyes burning against the side of my face. “Some might say we were born to be alone. We considered ourselves cursed. You broke the mold and proved the fate Timothy the Second set for us wasn’t the fate we had to choose. But now you’re kinda screwing our belief system up, ‘cos if Minka and Archer are not together, the foundation the rest of us thoughtwe were building upon becomes kinda shaky, don’t you think?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it.” I clench my jaw and wonder…where is she? Is she okay? She needs me to hold her. I know she does. But now she’s alone… in the heat… on infusion night.“I’m doing the right thing. For her,” I rasp. “For me.”
He chuckles, soft, almost silent, and completely fucking fake. “I’ve been doing the Cannon Daily crosswords for years.In pen. But I’m not sure I can solve this puzzle. You’ve lost me.”
“I already told you I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Arch?” Fletch’s voice echoes through my door, and right behind it, the soft rap of his knuckles. “Can I come in?”
“For fuck’s sake. No!” I bound to my feet and storm across the room, then whipping my door open with a flourish, I count bodies as they all take a step back. All except one. “No, you can’t come in. No, I’m not discussing this. And no, I don’t want a fucking hug, like that’ll make this shit better.” I spin in place and glare at Micah. “Get out. Stay out. Mind your business. If your relationship is shaky, work on it with Tiia. I’m not the fucking glue everyone else gets to rely on for happiness.”
Micah pushes to his feet, his temper a slow, dangerous blaze locked behind a pair of emerald eyes. His hands flexing, visible even while tucked into his pockets, and his jaw tensing, a million words attempting to be let free, but the control he has over them is absolute.
He got that from his mother. It’s the only reasonable explanation, because the Malone in him would have him setting shit on fire already.
He wanders the expanse of my room and slows in front of me, his eyes scouring mine. His lips folded into flat,unimpressed lines. Then he goes, crossing the threshold and taking Tiia’s hand in his.
God forbid she moves more than three feet from where he put her now that his belief in our happiness is on its head.
“Arch—”
I swing back to Fletch, my best friend, my brother, just as surely as the rest of them are my brothers. I was with him throughout those years as his marriage collapsed. I held him through her addiction, her infidelity, and eventually, her funeral.
Unlike Micah’s cold, calculated rage, Fletch watches me the way I know, I fuckingknow, I watched him while Jada destroyed them both.
Fighting anger with anger is easy. But pity? Sympathy?
“Leave me alone.” I slam the door in his face, the heavy wood rattling in the frame and vibrating out until the walls move with it. Then I swallow the ache in my throat, the one that makes it almost impossible to breathe.
Turning on my heels, I stride to my bed and scoop up my phone, but then I head back again and plaster my spine against the door, sliding down to my ass, and I wait… with my head in my hands and my heart in my throat, until finally, another text lights up my phone.
Michaels:
She’s at the apartment, boss. Door is locked behind her.
MINKA
Lock it down. Lock it in. Harden the fuck up, Minka Mayet.
At least you didn’t change your last name when you married… twice. At least you still have your own identity. Your own education. Degree. Job. You have your own life outside of him.
Not.
I move on autopilot, my steps robotic, my trembling jaw grit tight. Because if I don’t get that shit under control, I might start crying. And if I start crying, I’m not sure I’ll find the off switch again.
I drop my bag on the floor by the kitchen counter and glower at the length of ivory ribbon sitting on top, leftover from Aubree’s wedding. The last time I was here, I was rushing around in search of the things I’d need for my best friend’s nuptials, but also, in search of the answers for how best to serve Steve after his hospital discharge. I needed a place for him tostay. A nurse to take care of him. A miracle… that’s what I needed.
And look at me, the giant fucking genius, tucking the old man inside the house I’m no longer welcome inside. Which means walking the blistering halls of a four-story walk-upwithoutthe homely, hugging arms of Steve Morris twice a day.
Lock it down. Lock it in.
Just like at my father’s funeral, when the man I loved more than any otherchoseto leave me.
Shivering all over, I breathe through my nose and walk stiffly toward the fridge, dipping my hand into my pocket and taking out the vial. Just one half of my Factor pack, useless without the other half. I set the tiny glass bottle on the counter and swing the fridge open to reveal… not much. Yogurt pouches. A half-carton of creamer. A dozen eggs. And right at the back, my emergency stash of Factor. I reach in and grab the box, dragging it free of the fridge, but the longer I hold the package, the heavier dread becomes in the base of my stomach.
Because it’s not cold. Nothing is cold. Not the eggs. Nor the yogurt. I slam the door and whip it open once more, like the foolish action might trick the fridge into becoming functional once more, but when the interior light stays off, but the small clock on the oven is on—proving we have power—I’m left with the realization the fridge has died, and as I tear the box open and scan each small label, shaking both bottles and setting them with the first, I release a long, groaning sigh. Because even if the fridge still worked, this pack long ago passed its use-by date.
“Dammit!”
