“Because you grew up in a fucking cult of illiterate inbreds.”
Tension wraps tight in the room for half a second, Thorne’s rage tiptoeing to the proverbial ledge. It wobbles. Then falls.
With a beastly growl, Thorne catches Sawyer by the throat. He squeezes and shakes, manic eyes looking like they may pop from his skull.
Sawyer grasps Thorne’s hand and tries to pry—without success—all while maintaining his enraged expression.Remarkable. It’s even more remarkable that I don’t know who I’m rooting for.
Both to win.
Both to lose.
I jump to my feet anyway. “Stop!”
Thorne whips toward me, his hand still squeezing Sawyer’s throat. I wrap my arms around my stomach while slowly walking toward them. “Please.”
As soon as I reach the barbarians, Thorne lets go. No less angry than before.
Sawyer chokes on air and glares like he’s going to attack, but before another word can be said, Thorne storms from the room, his concrete feet audible all the way out the front door.
I turn my gaze to the red surrounding Sawyer’s neck, bruises sure to form. Soon, we’ll have matching blue collars.
Good.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask.
He rubs his neck, lips parted as he catches his breath. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t think he’d know what illiterate meant.”
“I think it wascultthat set him off.”
Or maybe inbred.
Sawyer’s brows lift. He tips his head to the side and chuckles. “Right… I forgot they don’t like it when you call it that… God, I’m so fucking tired of this place.”
He runs his hand through his hair as he goes to the bed and flops down. White paint clings to the bottom of his shoe.
I look down at the painting. It’s barely smudged; he only grazed it with the top of his shoe. But still, my ears burn and teeth grind as I stare at the imperfection.
I say nothing—a reflex grown in a few short weeks. A reflex I didn’t realize I’d developed until now.
Snarky words meant we went to the training room sooner and stayed longer. The days I kept my mouth shut were the days he typically just fucked me.
Simple. Subtle. Effective.
“Is that my dinner?” I point toward the abandoned plastic bag by the door.
Hand lifting off his eyes, he follows my gaze. “Yep.”
Yep.
“Guess you don’t need it now, though huh? Prince Charming got you covered with…” He peeks at the bowl. “Broth. Yum.”
Sarcastic. Jerk.
I retrieve the plastic bag and sit on the bed, Sawyer’s dirty shoes inches away, dusting the comforter with all the respect of pig.
I pull out the burrito but halt at a thin piece of paper crinkled in the bag. I toss the burrito aside, pull out the paper, and work out the creases while Sawyer dozes with an arm draped over his eyes.
He didn’t even bother to throw away the receipt.
