Page 33 of Scavenger's Oath

‘If you two keep fighting over her… I'll get rid of her myself.’

He meant it. Cold and clear.

And maybe that's what pissed me off the most—that he could say something like that and not even flinch. As if she's a broken weapon we can just toss if it doesn't fire right. Like she'snot already crawling under my skin… even if she won't so much as look at me now.

Plus, I’m being forced to make up with Zane like we’re little kids fighting over a toy.

This is stupid.

Reluctantly making my way downstairs, I check a few rooms before I find Zane out the back.

He’s crouched by the water barrels, shirtless, back muscles rippling as he washes the laundry. He stiffens as I approach but doesn’t turn, like he knew I was coming and isn't thrilled about it.

How do I even start this conversation?

My boots crunch in the gravel as I walk toward him. “Didn't know you started laundry duty,” I say casually.

He finally glances up. “Someone has to,” he says dryly. “Look, I don't really feel like talking to you right now.”

“Yeah? Well, I don't feel like talking toyoueither, but here I fucking am,” I snap, fists clenching by my sides.

I drag a hand through my hair and pace a few steps as I breathe and try to calm myself down. I hate this part.

The hovering. The not-knowing-how-to-start-a-goddamn-conversation part.

I wish I could just punch the feelings out of my chest and be done with it.

“Listen,” I mutter, “about last night—”

“You were out of line.”

My nostrils flare, struggling to keep my composure.He didn’t even let me finish.

Zane wrings out the cloth slowly, water dripping down his wrists, then hangs it on the side of the barrel. His voice is calm, but it's got a bite under it.

Drying his hands on his pants, he turns to face me, giving me an unimpressed look. “Say what you came to say.”

I don't like the way he's looking at me. Like I'm a problem he's too tired to fix.

“I didn't mean to scare her,” I murmur. “It got outta hand.”

Zane’s jaw tightens but he doesn't say anything.

Shuffling on my feet, I stare at the dirt. It's dry and cracked, like my throat suddenly is.

“I wasn't gonnadoanything to her. I just… I touched her leg, alright? Woke her up by accident. She freaked out.”

“And then you grabbed her,” he growls. “Ripped her shirt off. Left bruises all over her.” His tone doesn't rise, but it hits like a hammer.

Okay, maybe I didn’t stop myself soon enough. Maybe I didn’t even try. I wanted her to feel it. To still see the evidence of where I touched her days after.

“You don't know what happened.”

“I saw her,” he snaps, sharper now. “Saw the way she was shaking. The way she was curled up this morning like she was waiting for someone to finish the job.”

That silences me, hitting harder than I expect. But I swallow it down. I hate this version of me. The one that doesn't have the right words.

“I didn'thurther.”