Page 111 of The Blood we Crave

“Dead end,” Briar sighs. “All we keep finding are fucking dead ends.”

She runs a hand through her hair, leaning further into Alistair’s arms, seeking comfort in a hand I’d seen rip people apart. A man who believed he was nothing but a spare is the only thing holding her together.

“So we wait. I mean, that’s all we can do, right?”

“Wait for what? The Halo to make good on their promise to Thatcher?” the blonde bites with more venom than I think she wanted to. “For them to finish what they started with you, Lyra? Or do they come after Alistair? Or Sage?”

Fear.

It pours off Briar in waves. She may not admit it out loud, but it’s in her eyes. It lives there, festering and boiling out of her throat.

“Little thief—”

“No, Alistair. Don’t do that—don’t little thief me,” she bites, eyes shimmering with unshed tears, looking at him with a fierce gaze. “I will not lose you. I will lose any of you. Do you understand?”

She’s afraid, not for herself but for Alistair. For the people she cares about. Fearful of surrendering him to the cruel realities of this town. That small sliver of respect I have for her vibrates in my chest. An understanding between us that if the world came crashing down, she would sacrifice anything to protect him, just as he would for her.

Alistair, with hands capable of inflicting immense pain, swipes a tear gently off her cheek with his thumb, leaning forward so that his mouth is buried in her hair just beside her ear, whispering something only they can hear.

Emotions are running at an all-time high right now, and I have no desire to see it delve any further. I press my hands onto the table, getting ready to stand up when Lyra addresses me.

“You got a threat? When? What kind?”

“It’s nothing—”

“He got a letter, something about evil and warning him to leave or he wouldn’t make it out alive. RealPretty Little Liarsbullshit,” Rook butts in, always quick to insert himself into situations he doesn’t belong in.

“Mind your business,” I snap at him.

“Why didn’t you say anything to me?” Lyra insists.

I can see the hurt in her eyes, the glaze across them from my spot next to her. I don’t need her worry or concern. She can’t protect me because I’m not a victim.

Outside our private lessons, we aren’t supposed to be in contact. None of the surrounding people know of what we do behind closed doors, and she’s three seconds from showing all her cards to these people.

“This conversation is over.”

I stand to my full height, slipping out of the booth, when her soft interjection floats to my ears.

“But—”

I cut my gaze down at her, giving a curt shake of my head. Like someone silently punishing a child, keeping her from uttering another word.

It is not her job to look at me with glassy, pity-filled eyes. I am not some tragedy or person for her to care about losing. That isn’t what I am to her, and yet it’s written all over her face.

She could stare at the back of my head for all I care with those eyes filled with worry. I’d spent my childhood learning how to care for myself, how to mentally defend my emotions, and how to physically protect myself from harm.

But for some reason, that makes no sense biologically or chemically. It’s harder to stop myself from doing things I know I’ll regret later when she’s around. Like laying my palm on her head, petting her hair, and telling her with my mouth on her body that she had no reason to worry for me.

Touch is my biggest pet peeve, my mortal enemy for as long as I can remember. Yet, with Lyra, my skin burns for her contact. My sharp edges crave the gentle softness only she has.

My chest does this god-awful spasm, locking up and tightening. I need out of this diner and far away from her. I need space from her dirty rain boots and familiar smell.

Distance, so I can remind myself that I do not need Lyra to care about me. It’s easier to suspend her memory, the effect she seems to have on me, when I’m isolated, far away from her physical form.

I turn my back to her view, tossing my hand over my head in a careless goodbye that doesn’t require a response. I’m not paying attention, which is normally fine. I always have a clear path because it’s out of the ordinary for people to be in my way. They make it a point to flee whenever I’m around.

Except I feel my chest collide with another person, my face feigning indifference and eyes hardening as I look down. It’s probably wrong of me to assume everyone is below me, which is why I constantly cast my gaze lower. But I’m rarely wrong in my suspicion.