Page 48 of Chaos

I do not tell him about the tiny Maybe growing inside me. I won’t do that to him until I know for sure.

He’s quiet for a long time when I finish talking, his heart slamming so hard in his chest the bed’s shaking.

“You’re squeezing too hard,” I say.

His grip loosens instantly. “The soldiers who died were following orders, and the Butcher made a choice to order his people to attack. Their deaths are on the Butcher … debatably on me for ordering them to go there. Not you.”

“They wouldn’t have been there though—”

“You need someone to blame, you blame Ben. Because Ben decided to steal a deer. And Renata decided to overthrow him. And she went back on her word. And we all decided to attack them at the gym. How do you decide where the guilt starts? Get over yourself.”

A breath gusts out of me. “Rude.”

He harrumphs, and Beast, across the room, harrumphs back louder.

“Benis the problem,” Yorke says quietly, murderously, behind me. “And that filthy fuck you call Scraggle. They’re the problems. Not you.”

The promise of blood is there in his voice, and it’s enough to scare me. Colleen acted like a wrong move now could have an angry mob to our door. I don’t want them coming for Yorke. “You can’t kill them.”

He laughs—an unhappy scoffing sound. “So everyone keeps telling me.”

“It’s true. Thornewood is a mess. Awful food, no holiday decorations. It’s like everything that made Thornewood great is gone.”

He grunts irritably.

“You asked what I thought about.” I touch the hairs on his forearm. “What did you think about while I was in there?”

His sigh is massive. “Not much I feel like sharing.”

“Then can you give me one thing you feel like sharing?”

He traces his nose along my hairline, his breath whuffling over my skin. “I thought about how you smell …”

Immediately, my whole body tightens up, remembering the gangrenous foul bucket odor, and after a small pause, he keeps going. “Did I ever tell you about the house I stayed at early on after the plague?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It was full of random rich people shit.”

I frown, no clue where he’s going with this. “Like what?”

“Antique books and silk pajamas. Wood paneled drawers lined in velvet full of German watches, wine rooms stocked with hundred-year-old French bottles signed by dead Kennedys.”

“Dead Kennedys!” I roll around to face him, and finally, realize what he’s doing. He’s offering me something good, something worth smiling for. He’s finding light for me. “Don’t you dare say I smell like an old book or a wooden drawer.”

“No.” He slips his leg through mine and manhandles me, all warmth and solidity, with a grip on my ass until our groins line up and we fit together in a full-body hug. “The pantry had pounds of random stuff. Noor dates, Corsican capers, exotic almonds.”

I kiss his neck experimentally, wondering if it’ll bring bad memories, but it doesn’t, so I taste his skin with my tongue. Yorke. Just Yorke.

He sucks in air, and everything thickens and tightens down where our hips are pressed together tightly. “Pickled stuff.”

“You have a thing for pickles.”

“No.” His voice is lower than usual. “Orange zest olives, anchovy butter.”

“Anchovy butter?” I slide my hand up his shirt, soft, smooth skin, crinkly hair. Just Yorke. “Now you’re lying.”

“Nnnnmm.Upstairs, there was a closet full of fur coats. Minks and foxes.”

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