Page 12 of Nevermore (A Cruel Love #1)

TEN

SANTIAGO

I don’t typically do things like this.

It’s not because I’m above it but simply because I don’t care for… nature. It’s dirty and humid—the Texas sun beating down against my face—but I’m here anyway. The plan was to drop Reign off at the park and be on my way to meet up with Kingston and Hudson but that obviously didn’t happen.

So, I’m sitting here, watching Reign whittle.

Who the fuck whittles? That seems like a hobby for bored retired business men.

Or maybe someone from the backwoods who has nothing else to entertain him.

Still, sitting on one of the benches, I watch him.

He doesn’t give a shit that he’s sitting cross legged on the dirty ground, entirely focused on his task.

His pink tongue darts out every few seconds as he concentrates, and I feel a sick twisting in my stomach when it happens.

I look around at the park goers. This is a pretty well-trafficked park nestled between Crescent Hills and The Range.

It caters to all sorts of people, and on a Saturday, it’s packed.

There are old people out for a leisurely stroll, couples that walk hand-in-hand, and parents chasing after their children.

It’s all loud and busy. My two least favorite things, but I find that focusing on Reign helps.

As I watch him work, it somehow makes everything fade into nothing but white noise.

Weird .

“So, whittling?” I ask out of curiosity. “Why that?”

Reign’s head snaps up and there’s a blush coating his cheeks. He flicks his eyes back down to… whatever the fuck he’s making and gulps. “Um, it’s a hobby?”

I roll my eyes. “Statement or a question, Reign? You have to pick one or the other.”

“It’s a hobby,” he corrects. Something sparks in his eyes, a defiance I can almost taste, before it’s washed away by embarrassment a second later. “It’s just fun, I guess.”

I nod along, although I have a feeling there’s more than he’s letting on, but I drop it. Instead, I ask, “What are you making?”

His eyes widen as if he wasn’t expecting me to ask, let alone care. Rubbing the back of his sweaty neck, he chuckles lightly. “It’s a squirrel.”

“A squirrel,” I mimic. I squint, and now that I’m looking, it really is a fucking squirrel. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I like squirrels.”

“Sure because they’re so wildly entertaining.”

He narrows his eyes but keeps his mouth shut.

Instead of lashing out, he clears his throat and continues whittling away without a care in the world.

It does something to my gut—his dismissal—but I keep myself in check.

Losing composure simply because he didn’t cave to my taunt is childish behavior.

I can’t have him thinking he’s going to pull one over on me just because he’s… interesting.

I sit back and let myself just watch again.

I start noticing things in the bright sun I hadn’t before.

Like the way his strong jaw is framed by a neatly kept stubble, even though the hair on his head is a fucking mess.

The freckles on the bridge of his nose are so faint, you have to be looking to notice them. Then there are his hands.

His fucking hands.

I don’t know why I can’t look away. I’m zeroed in one the way they hold the freaking squirrel—strong and masculine—making a beautiful pattern out of peeled wood that smells like a forest. When he puts the squirrel down for a second, I notice the calluses on his hands.

A sign of someone who’s worked with his hands and knows manual labor.

But they somehow look soft too. My fingers twitch on the top of my thighs, itching for something I can’t place.

In my frustration, I scoff. “This is idiotic. You just sit here and whittle?”

“Uh, yeah?” he questions as if I’m the idiot. “What else am I supposed to do?”

I shrug. “Something that provides merit and value. You could be reading.”

“Readin’.” He snorts as he shakes his head. “Tried that. Ain’t a fan.”

I raise a brow at that but don’t question him any further. It’s becoming increasingly obvious that holding a conversation with him is too tedious. But I still sit here, watching him, waiting for that spark I saw when he confronted me in the hallway.

I stare and stare and stare…

Nothing .

“I’m going,” I say quickly, rising to my feet as I brush invisible dirt off my pants. “I’ll see you at home.”

“W-Wait!” he yells, running after me with all his equipment as I cross the park. “You can’t just leave me here. How am I supposed to get home?”

“None of my concern.”

“So, you just brought me out here to what? Make fun of my hobbies and ditch me?”

I huff. “Apparently.”

“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you!”

One of those callused hands land on my shoulder and stops me in my tracks. Reign is just as strong as I remember as he spins me on my heels and pushes me up against a tree. I’m shocked that I’ve let him catch me off-guard twice, but I can’t be mad for long.

Because there it is.

The fire. The sizzling burn of passion. The absolute testament of something lying under his surface.

My body thrums with a tension I’ve never felt before as he wraps a hand around my throat.

Without thinking and without warning, I tip my head back, letting him get a better grip.

From down my nose, I can see the way his eyes widen, but he doesn’t let go.

He presses into me instead, digging his forehead against my chin, breathing so harshly I can feel the way his body shakes.

There it is .

“Reign,” I mumble. “Did I upset you?”

I expect another bout of anger—another show of force—and I’m disappointed when Reign pushes off me.

My eyes zero in on his fists hanging dangerously by his side, and when I make my way back up to his face, I don’t see what I saw before.

All that I wanted has faded and what’s leftover is a humiliating blend of apology and remorse.

“Shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs, taking one deep breath as he takes another step back. “I’ll see ya at home.”

With that, he picks up his equipment and heads back to the tree he was sitting under. I’m disappointed, I’m annoyed, and I’m frustrated.

But I’m so fucking intrigued.