27. Nell
Well. This is awkward.
He’s flipping pancakes like I don’t even exist—cool, unbothered, like we didn’t almost combust against a brick wall last night. I’m perched here like some useless passenger princess, limbs stiff, tongue heavy.
Better than being soaked in milk, I guess.
I clear my throat.
“How did it go last night?”
Casual, as if asking about a murder clean-up is standard breakfast banter.
“Fine.”
Great. We’re in the monosyllabic phase of post-sexual-tension regret. He’s that pissed I turned him down, and now I get one-word answers and perfect golden pancakes that I know will make me want to forget every hiccup we’ve faced.
“Fab,”
I mutter, folding myself deeper into the silence.
But every time I glance up and catch him—bare-chested, absurdly edible, jaw tight with whatever he’s not saying—I regret it a little more. His sweats cling to his hips, and as much as I try not to be a total creep and stare at his ass, it’s so hard not to.
I regret pushing him away. Regret not letting him finish what he started when he dropped to his knees like he meant it.
I had that man between my thighs, and I turned him down.
Who does that?
Oh, wait, I do! This is how I’ve managed to stay single since my breakup with Adam. I’m a walking cock-block. Even to myself apparently.
What’s wrong with me?
He sits beside me, casual like it means nothing—like the air between us hasn’t been thick for hours. Then he slides a plate my way, the edge of it grazing against my arm.
His hands catch my eye—broad, steady, veined in that way that shouldn’t be distracting but suddenly is. Hands that have held violence and gentleness in equal measure. Hands that touched me like I was breakable, then kissed like I wasn’t.
I focus on the food. Not him. Not the burn blooming just beneath my skin.
I swear, if I stay here much longer, I’m going to devolve into a full-blown sex maniac.
“I need to know about your uncle.”
The words land like a slap. No question. No lead-in. Just straight up impact.
I choke mid-bite—pancake catching in my throat as I splutter like a deflating balloon. It finally ejects in a less-than-glamorous projectile across the table. So much for elegance.
And as if the universe hasn’t humiliated me enough, Boomerang picks that exact moment to demonstrate just how vile he’s capable of being. He saunters up, sniffs the half-chewed mess… and starts eating it.
Like it’s his goddamn birthday dinner.
Absolutely revolting.
Normally, I’d laugh. I’d make some gross joke and carry on like I’m not perpetually teetering on the edge.
But the second Cameron said “uncle,”
something in me locked up—like a steel door slamming shut. The cold moves fast, straight through bone. And suddenly, the room feels suffocatingly small.
There’s nothing funny about this part.
Neither of us acknowledges Boomerang’s vile breakfast antics, thank God. Cameron just sits there unnervingly silent, sipping his water like it’s a holy ritual. Like silence itself might crack me open if he holds it long enough.
I already know what’s coming.
“I’m not talking about that,”
I snap, before he can open his mouth again.
“I need to know what happened, Nell.”
The way he says it—low, steady, too careful—makes my skin itch.
“No, you don’t, stalker boy.”
I don’t look at him directly, but I catch the frown pinching the corner of his mouth from my periphery.
Then, quietly he adds.
“Is it true? Did he… touch you?”
The word hangs there like stale smoke. Like poison. My throat tightens instantly.
Why he’s suddenly decided to play therapist, I have no idea. But I didn’t sign up for this little trauma unboxing. Not today. Not from him. I made that mistake once before—trusted someone with the truth and watched them walk away like it dirtied me.
So I shift gears.
“Oh, wow, look at the time,”
I say, forced cheer slathered over something hollow.
“Better get to the shop. Wouldn’t want to throw off the sacred routine.”
I slide off the stool and head for the door before he can try again. No goodbyes. No glances. Just the scrape of chair legs and Boomerang’s tail brushing my shin.
He doesn’t chase me. But just before I’m out of earshot, his voice follows like my personal shadow.
“We’re going to talk about it, Nell.”
No. We’re not.
Not if I have anything to say about it.
The walk does me good. Fresh air, space to think—less paranoia clinging to my skin with every step. For a minute, I even question if Manticore’s still on my tail. There are no shadows. No tension prickling at my neck. Just… quiet.
Almost suspiciously quiet.
When I return, Cameron’s nowhere near the front line of my attention—he’s buried behind a wall of people in what used to be the living room, now apparently transformed into a full-blown tactical HQ.
Talia I recognise, cool and unreadable as ever. The others? Strangers. All suited in that same intimidating silence, each one exuding the kind of energy that says they’ve seen things they don’t talk about.
I keep my head down and move fast, hoping to slip past unnoticed, and I almost make it.
But a few heads lift as I dart by—eyes tracking me just a little too long. Just enough to remind me I’m not as invisible as I want to be.
I shut my bedroom door behind me a little harder than necessary.
I’m frustrated. Stressed. Pissed off at myself in a way that simmers just beneath the surface, raw and relentless.
I stole my own happiness the other night. Sabotaged it. Kicked it in the teeth and watched it crawl away.
And now? He’s never going to touch me again. Not like that. Not with that heat and hunger I’ve craved for so long. We were there. Teetering on the edge of something I’ve wanted more than I was ever willing to admit.
And I blew it.
Ugh.
The silence is worse than I expected. No work to distract me, no chores to bury myself in—no laundry, no dishes, no sense of purpose. Just me. And the roar of my own thoughts, spinning on repeat, getting louder by the minute.
I hate this kind of quiet.
I swear at this rate my vibrator is going to run out of battery, but needs must, and right now, this is very much a need.