“I own this space, Half-Pint. Not my fault you decided to stand in it.”
“Ugh, I could kill you.”
“You could try.”
His eyes move over my face in a quick motion, and then he looks away like he doesn’t like what he found. He bends until his voice ghosts across my ear.
“Bathroom’s behind you. Try not to get lost again.”
Chapter 20
Genevieve
The sun isn’t fully up when Lance bangs on the bedroom door.
“Up,” he calls, his voice muffled through the wood. “We’ve got work to do.”
“Go away.”
“Don’t make me come in there.”
I bury my face in the pillow and groan. I’ve barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, my brain replayed my father’s voice on a loop—I love you to the moon—and by the third hour of staring at the ceiling, I gave up pretending I’d get any rest at all. Sighing, I push off the bed and stomp to the door, swinging it open.
“If you don’t have coffee, I’m going back to bed.”
He smirks, but his eyes flick over my face like he’s checking for damage, and a bit of my irritation softens.
“You sleep at all?”
“Why do you care?”
“You’re cranky.”
I scoff and cross my arms.
“You can use it to fuel you when we run,” he says, sounding way too awake for how dark it still is.
“Run? Like…outside?”
He tosses me a protein bar and jerks his chin toward a bag on the ground. “Grabbed some stuff this morning for you to wear in case you didn’t have anything. Shoes are by the front door. They should fit.”
I blink at him.He went out and got me shoes?
“Ten minutes,” he says, and walks away before I can ask any questions.
Cavall, who was sitting at Lance’s feet, stays behind, that pink duck clamped in his mouth and his tail wagging.
“Traitor,” I mutter. “You were supposed to be on my side.”
His tail wags harder.
I drag myself over to the bag of clothes placed next to the door and change into them, hating that they actually fit perfectly. Then I stomp out, rage fueling every second that I have to myself to wake up and think.
Cavall waits for me and then stays right by my side, pouncing down the stairs and nosing at my hand until I pet him.
“Where’s your asshole owner?” I ask, looking around the living room.
He walks over to his bed, dropping the duck in a swirl of blankets and fabric, then noses it until it’s positioned exactly right. He gives a sharp whine and trots to the front door.
