Exodus (The Ravenhood)

“I do have your back. Always will.” He stalks toward me and takes my hand. “And I am your friend,” he swears, darting his stare to Tobias and then back to me. “No, Cee, it wasn’t me. And trust me, I’m paying for it.”

And I believe him. He was there from the beginning. The idea that he sold the three of us out is ridiculous and would be insulting if he hadn’t turned his back on me.

“I know it wasn’t,” I admit begrudgingly, and swallow. I lift my eyes to his and resent the shake in my voice. “I’m so fucking mad at you.”

“I know. So is he,” he jerks his head toward Tobias. He leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek. “I’m sorry. And I just wanted to say thank you.”

He gives me no time to ask him why he’s thanking me before turning and striding toward the back door. A second later, he shuts it softly behind him.

A long, tense silence passes between us before Tobias resumes his chopping.

I run my fingers through my wet hair and secure it in a loose bun with the tie on my wrist. “What was the errand?”

He eyes the newly bared bite mark on my neck as he answers. “He swept the house and reset the security system.”

“Dominic took care of that months ago.”

He stills his knife. “Well it’s been done again.” The sharpness in his voice matches the blade of the knife he’s wielding—those poor tomatoes.

I take the stool at the island and can’t help myself from asking. “Why are you here…doing this?” I gesture to where he works expertly dissecting a cucumber. He stills his knife and looks up at me briefly before getting back to his task.

“We’re going to have dinner and a conversation.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m fighting hard not to become the monster you so easily bring out of me. This is business.”

“What exactly are you hoping for with me? Friendship?” I snort, incredulous, “Maybe it’s you that can’t handle the fact that I despise—”

He lifts blazing eyes to mine. “Friendship, no. And I couldn’t give a shit that you hate me.”

“Then what?”

“Jesus Christ,” he slams the knife down. “I’m making dinner. You’ll eat it. We’ll have a conversation, and I’ll leave.”

“Fine!”

“Fine! Bordel de merde!” Fucking hell.

I stand and jerk open the fridge collecting two water bottles, slamming one down in front of him. “Here!”

“Fucking thank you,” he snaps, uncorking the bottle.

Our eyes meet a split second before we both burst into laughter. And the sight of him in this state is blinding. And wrong, so wrong. I can’t—won’t—appreciate the mirth dancing in his eyes, the dazzling white of his perfect teeth, or the contrast of his dark skin against his crisp white shirt. I can’t love the strength in his jaw or the definition in his shoulders or the sight of his belt on his trim waist. Within seconds, I’m back in that clearing, on my knees picturing myself unleashing him.

It doesn’t take long to realize his laughter has faded out and he’s watching the rise and fall of my chest, drinking in the look in my eyes. He stands like a sentry, still on the other side of the island as his gaze darkens.

Setting the knife down, he runs a hand through his hair and cups the back of his neck. His voice low when he speaks. “What happened the other night was…” his eyes dart to mine, “chalk it up to curiosity.”

“You mean that wasn’t you? Sure looked like you.”

“You don’t fucking know me.”

“I don’t fucking want to.”

He swipes his hand across the counter, drawing the chopped vegetables into a bowl. Another tense silence passes, and I don’t bother to acknowledge the hint of guilt he’s displaying. Even if he added the sincerest of apologies, it would never be enough.

“So, if it wasn’t Tyler, it was someone from the meetup that told you I was here. Is that how you found out about me?”