Page 42 of The Bonds We Break

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“I won’t. I know you’re busy figuring out how to be president, figuring out how to lead, dealing with things spinning out of control. It’s why your shoulders feel like steel bars.”

His head drops even farther, and I massage up the back of his neck and the base of his skull. More tension. More crackling of knots beneath my fingers.

“There’s no shame in sharing the broken parts.”

King stands suddenly. “Pack your things.”

“Why?”

“I’ve had enough of this fucking cabin.”

16

KING

“It’s ...” Rae looks around the old kitchen and tries to rustle up a word. “Rustic.”

She’s right.

It doesn’t even begin to describe the yellowed pine cabinets and provincial tiles that form the image of a rooster over the stove. Blue-and-white plaid scalloped curtains hang by the kitchen window.

I nudge her farther into the house. “I only bought the place a year ago. Have plans to gut it at some point. Just haven’t made the time.”

“Thank God, because kidnapper or not, I couldn’t stay here with you if this were actually your taste. Although I do like the purple stools. It’s my favorite color.”

It shouldn’t turn me on that she’s never lost her wit or her sense of self through this whole thing. Neither should it grind my gears that she used the wordkidnapper. It roils uneasily in my stomach.

“First thing to go when I reno the kitchen. They’re uncomfortable as hell to sit on. Think that’s the reason the previous owners left them behind.”

We drag everything in from the truck and deal with the food.

“Do you have a washing machine I could use?” Rae asks. “I’m running low on clean things.”

“In the basement, which is down the hallway. Knock yourself out.”

She pulls her open cases into the hallway where I can still see her and diligently begins dividing things into piles. I like the way she goes with the flow. Must be all that zen shit she practices. I roll my neck from left to right. I had a low-grade headache earlier, but her fingers digging into my tense muscles felt so fucking good that I lost my anger.

Even thoughts of Track and Tessa couldn’t get me to tell her to stop.

Makes me wonder if she’d massage the rest of me. The two of us, a bottle of oil, and a whole lot of time sounds really good.

Something has shifted between us in the last couple of days. I’d be foolish not to admit that. But it doesn’t change the objective. I’m still holding on to her to punish Saint.

As I’m shoving the food into the fridge, the back door bursts open, then slams shut as my sister shivers, her face pushed into her scarf. “Jesus, it’s chilly today.”

I glance out the window. “You didn’t smash anything when you parked, did you?” I tease, even as I realize I need to get her out of my house.

“You’re an ass.” She grins. “I wondered if you wanted to grab lunch. Clutch went over to Saint’s with Spark to stock up the fridge and ready the house for when they get back, so I’m free.”

It grates that Clutch and Spark are making everything easy for the traitorous son of a bitch.

Before I can answer, Rae’s voice carries up the stairs from the basement. “Where do you keep your detergent?”

Shit.

Gwen can’t find out Rae is here. She’ll tell Clutch. And I don’t want anyone else to know until I’m staring Saint down.