Page 67 of Last Man Standing

She scoffs. “Then you’d be wasting your time and kindness for the sake of unjustifiable optimism. In the weeks I’ve known him, I’ve come to realize Sebastion presents himself to the world in a way that isn’t entirely true to who he is. Like war paint, he covers himself in a hard exterior and seems to enjoy tormenting others so that they’ll leave him alone. But beneath that armor is a man who would defend a woman he barely tolerates. He teaches a woman he considers tiresome. And when that woman is no longer in immediate danger, he returns to tormenting her… because she’s weak. But yeah…” The legs of her chair scrape along the tile. “If I could command my body to act instead of freeze, if I could choose to fight instead of fawn, I would protect your son. Because those glimpses I see underneath the war paint, that person he hides inside, deserves to be protected just as fiercely as he protects.”

22

SCARLETT

THERE’S TWO OF THEM

Idrink the last of my coffee and mourn what I’m too polite to ask for more of. And by polite, I mean terrified. Instead, I push up from my chair and carry my cup to the sink. I pass within a foot of Paul Jameson, close enough that he could reach out and snap my neck. He’s a highly trained soldier, after all, and doing so would make his wife immeasurably happy. But he doesn’t touch me, and I don’t die, in spite of how tempting eternal sleep feels to my exhausted brain.

Rinsing my cup just as thoroughly as the first, I turn it upside down and wait for the excess water to drip off, then I set it in the drying rack, exactly where it was before I came in here.

Turning and dragging the too-long sleeves of Sebastion’s hoodie over my hands, I glance up at his father and know, twenty years from now, thirty years, exactly what Sebastion will look like.

Handsome and kind.

“Thank you for the coffee.” I dip my chin in farewell. “And the conversation. You didn’t even make me cry.”

His eyes flicker with amusement, even as his shoulders bounce with silent laughter. “I never had a daughter, Ms. Castro, so I’m not entirely sure I’d know how to comfort a crying young lady. I’m just as thankful for our tear-free conversation as you are.”

“Arabella doesn’t cry? Ever?”

“Once or twice over the years when the situation truly called for it.” His lips curl into a playful smirk. “However, I’m not sure I would, or should, respond the same way. You are two entirely different women, after all.”

“Of course.” Stupid, stupid. Stupid. “I’m sorry. Forget I…” I bring my hand up and nibble on my pinky nail. “Ignore me, please. And if, despite my roundabout suggestion, you still feel as though I would be better buried in a shallow grave, could you do me the favor of not warning me ahead of time?”

Surprised, his brows shoot high on his forehead. “You wouldn’t want to know?”

“No.” I start toward the doorway. “I overthink these things, and I’d rather not spend my last moments wondering ‘am I walking too fast for their sharpshooter’s comfort?’ or ‘would they like me better if I dug my grave myself?’”

From stunned surprise to a loud guffaw, Paul throws his head back and barks out a booming laugh. “Jesus. What a way to be, huh?” His cheeks glow red with cheeriness. “You’d dig your own grave too?”

“Pathetic, huh?”

“I think that may be the fawning thing,” he chuckles. “Though, I find comfort in knowing you do not fawn for my son. You bite back and err on the side of bitchy bitterness, which tells me you’re capable. You just need a little more practice. Oh, and Scarlett?”

I stop just before the door and turn back to meet his gaze. “Mm?”

“I encourage you to reconsider the intent behind my son’s teasing. I suspect it’s less about weeding out the weak, and more about providing you with an opportunity to fight back.” He lifts a single shoulder. “But what do I know?” He tips his chin toward the doorway, while the thunderous march of men, dozens of them, comes this way. “Run along now. If you wish to eat with everyone else, you’re welcome to. But I suggest putting on a pair of pants.”

And just like that, humiliation blooms inside my chest. I grab the hem of Sebastion’s hoodie and dart into the hall in search of freedom, only to lock eyes with that man from last night, the one who stood with Arabella and took my phone.

A terrified yelp bursts from the depths of my lungs, but my feet keep moving. If he intends to speak, or break my neck, I move too quickly for him to latch on.

Yay, flight! Go, baby, go.

I hurry along the hall and skid to a stop at my bedroom door, then slowing my racing breath and gripping the handle, I quietly type in the pin code Sebastion gave me and grit my teeth when each number elicits an electronic beep.

8. Beep. 6. Beep. 4. Beep. 9. Beep.

I hold my breath and stop barely short of crying when the handle beep beep beep beeps to announce my entry, then I twist the knob and step into the darkness. My pulse thunders painfully against my chest. My hands shake and my head throbs, but I move into the room and shut the door at my back, then waiting a moment for my eyes to adjust to the low light, I glance at the bed and find Sebastion exactly where I left him.

Except, not exactly. Because instead of snuggling into a pillow and snoozing with his lips popped forward, he lounges amongst the pillows, his back against the headboard, his ankles crossed, and his chest, still bare and ridiculously on display.

He looks me up and down, his twitching lips and glee-filled eyes promising more secrets kept than that of his mother’s address. But while I clamp my mouth shut and drag the sleeves of his hoodie over my hands, he merely lifts his chin that way he does.

It’s hello. It’s you’re busted. It’s I’m eternally horny and like to torment you for fun. “You had me worried for a sec there, Princess. Thought you snuck out.” He peeks past me to the door. “Where’d you go?”

“I wanted coffee.”