Page 31 of Saving Sparrow (Slow Burns & Tragic Beginnings #2)

Then

“Why’d you stop me from going after him?” Quentin had been pacing the sitting area for the last hour while I attempted to read in bed. I hadn’t gotten past the first page. I kept replaying the scared look on Elliott’s face when Delaney had him cornered by his locker.

“He said he wanted to be alone. Elliott isn’t like us, not really.”

“He is like us,” he insisted. “He likes being here, likes being with us, being our friend.”

“I just mean sometimes he needs time alone to think.” I wondered if I’d said that in English when Quentin gave me a confused look.

“He could think in here with us,” he said stubbornly.

Quentin had no concept of needing personal space.

If I were upset, he’d be in my face, crowding me until I gave in and told him what was wrong.

That worked with me because I liked that.

I liked that he couldn’t function until he knew what bothered me, until he fixed it.

But Elliott wouldn’t let him fix his problem, at least not right now.

Quentin didn’t know how to handle that. It made him feel useless.

He patted his pockets, likely looking for his phone. He’d left it on his nightstand before storming off to pace. “Did he send another text?”

I looked at my phone. It hadn’t left my side since Elliott ran off when we got home from school. “No.” Dropping the phone on the bed, I set my book aside and headed to the window. I stared beyond the pool to the darkened woods, dragging my bottom lip between my teeth.

“You shouldn’t have stopped me from telling him we were coming, whether he wanted us to or not.”

“He said he was fine, Quentin.”

“Well, what if he’s not?”

I’d been thinking the same thing, and my silence must have confirmed that. “I’m going over there.” Quentin charged over to me, grabbing the T-shirt he’d tossed onto his side of the bed earlier.

“Quentin,” I reasoned, “part of being friends is accepting what the other person needs.”

He scoffed. “Did you read that in one of your books?”

I glared at him. “Let’s give him until morning. Then we’ll show up on his doorstep.”

“Fine,” he grumbled. “I’ll set my alarm for four a.m.”

“Quentin,” I groaned, exasperated.

“What? You said morning. Technically, I could storm that place after midnight if I wanted to.”

I didn’t have the energy to debate with him, and honestly, I was worried too. I just knew how to hide it better. One of us had to be the sane one. If I weren’t the calm one, there’d have been no limit to Quentin’s madness.

“I’m sick without him,” I whispered, at least giving him that much.

“It’s not too late to—”

“No,” I said, wishing I’d never admitted anything.

Quentin grumbled, peeling his shirt off again before dragging himself over to the couch and falling onto it.

“Do you think he’s going to school tomorrow?

” I turned to the window again, like maybe I could see through the trees and the dark night sky.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t he?” Quentin could be so oblivious sometimes.

“Because he almost got beaten up by Delaney.”

“Don’t exaggerate. I never would’ve let that dickhead put a hand on Elliott. He was just being an asshole, per usual.”

“Well, I’m sure Elliott felt like he was about to get beaten up.

That’s all that matters. Day one and we failed him.

We should have at least warned him about Delaney.

” I fell onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling.

I’d been so caught up in my thoughts I hadn’t realized Quentin never said anything back.

When he finally spoke, his voice was almost too low for me to hear.

“I wanted to hurt him. When I saw how close he was to Elliott… I thought I might. I’m supposed to protect him.”

“You did.” I wasn’t just saying it to make Quentin feel better, although there was that too. It also happened to be the truth. “You faced down Ballbuster for him too.” I huffed. “Think he’ll really make the announcement in the gazette?”

“Nah, but it’s all good. I’ll make my own fucking announcement.”

That worried me, but not enough to try to change his mind.

As Elliott’s friends, we had a job to do.

I wasn’t as large and intimidating as Quentin and didn’t hold any importance to the school like he did, but I was ready to lay into Delaney today.

Or try to, at least. I wouldn’t have let him touch Elliott, that much I knew.

I’d surprised myself with how unafraid I was. I liked it.

“I miss him,” I said, pushing to my elbows. “Right now, we would’ve been reading together while you watched sports stuff on your phone.” Then we would’ve glued our bodies together and fallen asleep. I loved our routines.

“Think he’ll have a nightmare?”

“No,” I said, otherwise there would’ve been no stopping Quentin. But now that I thought about it, I wasn’t so sure I wanted to stop him anymore. What if Elliott did have a nightmare?

Quentin rested his chin on the back of the couch, watching me as I watched him. I must have looked as lost as I felt, because he turned his attention from Elliott to me.

“Come on, let’s shower and go to bed.” Quentin stood, kicking out of his pants and underwear as he stalked over to me. He pressed one knee into the mattress, then leaned in to remove my glasses.

I shook my head. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Since when do I care?” He gripped the waistband of my boxer briefs and had them off me before I had time to resist, then he manhandled me up and over his shoulder.

“Quentin,” I complained. He slapped my ass and kept walking toward the bathroom, only placing me on my feet once he’d stepped through the glass shower door.

I backed away until my spine met the glass wall on the other side. Quentin acted like he hadn’t noticed, whistling as he turned the three showerheads on.

“Why are you all the way over there?” He tipped his head back under the spray, letting the water run over his hair and face. Brushing his wet hair back, he prowled over to me, an innocent smile on his face. Breathing became harder as steam filled the space.

“What’s our word?” he whispered.

“Para,” I whispered back, the command for “stop.” It was the one Spanish word Quentin truly cared to know.

“Good,” he praised, cupping my cheeks.

“Quentin, don’t.” My eyes closed against my will, even as I pushed weakly at his hard chest. It was always like that when he touched me, this war between yes and no.

“Just let me take care of you. Let me do it all.” He grabbed my hands, putting a little force behind his tug when I didn’t move. I gasped as the water hit my skin, taking my internal temperature from simmering to scorching.

Quentin used his big body to shield me from the worst of it, giving me time to adjust to the heat. When my insides continued to feel like they were liquifying, I realized the water wasn’t the problem. It was the way Quentin looked at me that burned, making me melt.

I placed my palms against his chest again but suddenly couldn’t work out how to push him away.

My hands fell to my sides as he moved to position the other showerheads our way. A soft cascade of water hit me from all angles now, making me feel caged in.

Quentin stepped over to the floating shelf and then returned. I closed my eyes as he circled me, closing in from behind.

“Quentin,” I tried, but his hands were already in my wet hair, his fingers scraping along my scalp. Suds trickled down my neck and shoulders, and I sighed, tilting my head back.

“You and me forever,” Quentin breathed next to my ear. His fingers stopped moving when I didn’t repeat it. “Say it,” he demanded. He used the same tone he used on the field. He meant business.

“You and me forever.” I decided not to make him sweat for it. I loved fighting him, but we hadn’t had this type of connection in months. Not this intense, at least. As much as I missed this part, I missed the next part even more.

Quentin turned me to face him, keeping my head angled as he backed me further under the showerhead. Water poured over my hair and down my back as he massaged my scalp.

A few minutes later, his hands left my hair. My eyes fluttered open, and I tried to form the words to tell him I didn’t want what his gaze suggested, but the heat and steam left me too lightheaded to think.

“Quentin, I… I…”

“You what?” he asked mockingly, reaching over my head to pump a few squirts of shower gel into his palm. He rubbed them together before laying both hands on me, soaping up my shoulders and chest, the water still rushing down my back.

“I want you to stop,” I finally got out, even if the words were barely a whisper.

Quentin chuckled, his soapy hands sliding along my neck and squeezing. “It’s too late for that, Guelly.”

Guelly was an extension of the second syllable in my name.

Quentin made sure to use the nickname when he got like this.

When he was in the mood to be mean, but wanted me to know he was still in control of himself.

It sounded soft and loving coming from his lips, even when his touch felt hard and hateful.

“I can soap myself up.” I knocked his hands off me. I tried to turn to the shelf of bottles behind me, but Quentin held me in place with a palm at my nape.

“I know you can”—his green eyes held me hostage—“but I wanna do it.” It would’ve taken a fight to get him to let me do it on my own, a fight I wouldn’t have won.

I shivered as he worked his free hand down my chest and past my tensed stomach. I grabbed his wrist, my mouth opening, but no words came out.

“Say it,” he dared me, pretending he couldn’t rip from my hold if he wanted to. “ Say it.”

“S-stop,” I stammered.

Quentin’s smile was smug as he leaned in to speak against my ear. “Fuck no.”

I swallowed, body vibrating as his palm tightened on the back of my neck. He picked up where he’d left off, dipping a soapy finger into my navel before fast-tracking it down to my dick.