Page 55

She moved like someone who’d been thoroughly ruined the night before. Which, from the sounds I’d ignored behind a closed door upstairs, she had been. When I did glance at her, I noticed a deep mark on her shoulder peeking out from the collar of her shirt, and Ihatedhow my body responded to it.

“Morning,” she said, a little rough. There was that edge she always tried to hide behind sarcasm when she was unsure.

Az gave her a warm, polite nod. “Morning. Sit, eat.”

She eased into the chair next to mine with a quiet wince. Sore. Good. She was quiet for a beat, then: “Thought I might get the morning off after yesterday.”

Az smiled into his coffee. “You thought wrong.”

She gave him a narrow-eyed look, half challenge, half pout. “You’re going to make me hate you through all this, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Az said. I smirked into my mug. I couldn’t help it. There was something satisfying about being the person to rob her of her wish of a relaxing morning after getting worked over in Az’s routine and then railed out by the other two. It took the edge off of the knowledge that meant I had to spend actual time in her presence.

“Joey’s taking you to the range,” Az added, standing. “You’ll need to go over safety first. Again. Don’t skip it. Then target practice.”

Victoria glanced at me, then back at Az. “I know I need to get miles better with guns but—”

Az looked pointedly at her, then at me, then back at her. “That’s why we’re training.”

She held up her hands in mock surrender. “Yes, Sir.”

Az clapped me on the shoulder as he passed. It didn’t feel friendly. “Don’t be an asshole.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, sweet as poison. Silence fell like a dropped blade when the door shut behind Az, and I let it hang. Let her stew in the quiet for a minute while I rinsed out my mug and set it in the sink like I didn’t want to launch it through a window. Then I turned. She was watching me. Wide-eyed. Hopeful, like maybe we’d bonded or some shit over shared bullets and bacon.

“You sore?” I asked, voice flat.

Her lips parted, surprised. “Uh… yeah. Little bit.”

“Good,” I said, grabbing my jacket from the back of the chair.

Her face tightened, that softness she’d walked in with hardening in real-time. “I thought we were past this.”

I gave her a cold smile. “You thought wrong. You’ve got ten minutes,” I said, already turning away. “Wear something that won’t get you laughed off the range.”

I didn’t wait for her response. Just headed for the stairs two at a time, needing distance before I said something that’d get me slapped again—or worse, looked at like she pitied me.

My room smelled like oil and powder and cedar cleaner. Comforting. Familiar. The safe was already open from last night—I hadn’t been able to sleep and ended up cycling through gun parts and old memories at three in the damn morning like a lunatic. I pulled a couple of pistols from the foam slots, clean and familiar, like muscle memory. Then grabbed a heavier one just for the hell of it. Not for her. For me. Then I shoved a couple spare mags into my jacket. I didn’t need them. She did. She’d probably drop one, jam the slide, or forget to check the chamber. Again.

The thought of her with a weapon in her hands again made something twist low in my gut. I didn’t trust her. Not with a gun. Not with my friends. And sure as shit, not with my dead brother’s legacy.

I locked everything back up, double-checked the weight of what I was carrying, and stood still for a second. Long enough to breathe. Long enough to think.

If she was gonna be around, I might as well use this. If shewasworking with the Jackals, sooner or later, she’d fuck up. Show her hand. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But no one could fake it forever—not with the pressure we lived under. The Jackals weren’t subtle. She’d trip. They always did.

And if she didn’t? Then maybe I’d finally push her far enough to leave. Either way, I win.

When I came back downstairs, she was waiting by the front door in leggings and a jacket I knew wasn’t hers. It wasCraig’s. The sleeves were too long, the hood too big. She looked ridiculous in it, as if she was trying to be taken seriously.

“Cute,” I muttered, pushing past her and heading for the car.

She followed, silent until we were halfway down the block. The silence was heavy but not the kind that soothed. It scratched at the inside of my skull.

“You used to like when I wore your clothes,” she said, like we were reminiscing. Like we were us.

I scoffed, eyes on the road. “Yeah, well. I also used to like anchovies. We all make mistakes.” That shut her up.

For about twenty seconds.