Page 24 of Endgame

“Anywhere that’s not here.”

“Cassidy is the only family she has.”

“Not my problem.”

“It’s not their fault, Rourke,” my sister whispered. “And it’s not your fault either.” Leaning her head against my shoulder, she sighed sadly. “You need to stop blaming them and yourself for what he did. Hating them won’t change the past. It just makes life harder for you. I don’t want you to be bitter, Rourke.”

“Ican’t, Mills,” I squeezed out. Itwasmy fault. I didn’t protect her. I took my eye off the ball and my sister paid for it in the worst kind of way. Trust had gotten me nowhere and fast. I wouldnotmake that mistake again.

Mercedes

I WORKED THE next four days straight at the coffee shop, learning the ropes and the million different beverages they offered. I was grateful for the extra shifts Alec had offered me. I needed a distraction from the house and everyone in it. Working at Madame Jory’s gave me a much-needed break.

I had the day off work on Friday and I planned to spend it in my room, locked away from the bullshit family I’d been dragged into. Mom and Gabe had left early this morning with Amelia in tow. Mom had popped her head in my door first thing to let me know they were going shopping and I zoned out. I wasn’t interested in shopping and didn’t care enough to pretend to listen.

I couldn’t seem to look at my mother these days without feeling acutely annoyed. And hanging around the house just to end up being on the receiving end of Rourke’s angry glares wasn’t exactly appealing either. I always gave as good as I got when it came to Rourke Owens, but I’d be a liar if I said he didn’t make me feel nervous. He looked at me like I was a threat; like my mere presence was causing him tremendous distress.

It didn’t make sense and I resented my mother for bringing me into his house. It was her fault I was the sole focus of this angry, fucked up, beautiful man-child.

Rourke wasn’t eighteen yet, but calling him a boy sounded absurd, especially considering I’d seen him shirtless and there wasnothingboyish about his ripped stomach and bulging biceps.

By lunchtime, I reluctantly gave into my stomach’s noisy protests and fell out of my bed. Trudging downstairs, I headed straight for the kitchen, ignoring the sound of the television blaring coming from the living room.

Of course, since it was my one day off this week, Rourke would have to be hanging around the house.

Biting down on my lip in frustration, I walked over to the fridge and pulled out a carton of milk and then grabbed the container of cereal on the counter. Fetching a bowl and spoon from the dishwasher, I sank down on a stool at the breakfast bar and fixed myself a huge ass bowl of cereal. I wasn’t familiar with this particular brand, but I wasn’t fussy either. The honey glazed, bean-shaped cereal tasted delicious and I scarfed them down.

“Christ, you eat like a pig,” Rourke commented dryly, walking into the kitchen.

Not bothering to answer his snarky jibe, I merely flipped him the bird and continued to ‘eat like a pig’ as he had so kindly phrased it. I didn’t give two shits what Rourke Owens thought about me or my eating habits.

Unlike him, I hadn’t been raised with a silver spoon in my mouth and caviar on my side plate. He was probably one of those people that cut their burger into bite sized pieces before eating it. Me? I was a blue-collar kind of girl with the basic knowledge of a fork, knife, and spoon and not a lot else.Stuck up prick.

“I was joking,” Rourke shot back in an amused tone.

“Don’t care,” I muttered between bites, eyes focused on the half-eaten bowl of cereal in front of me. “Did you want something?”

“Not from you,” he shot back cruelly.

“Then what do you want?” I slammed my spoon down on the counter and glared at him. Rourke’s brows rose in surprise. I didn’t care if I had shocked or surprised him. I didn’t care if I was being rude, either. “This is my only day off all week. Forgive me if I don’t want to spend it swapping shitty comments back and forth with you.”

Rourke narrowed his eyes. “What the fuck’s gotten into you?”

You,I wanted to scream.

I didn’t.

“Nothing,” I snapped, refocusing on my late breakfast. “Nothing at all.”

“Then what’s with the tone?”

Tone? Was he serious? I inhaled several deep breaths before attempting to answer him. “You don’t like me,” I finally said. “You’ve made that perfectly clear over the past two and half weeks. But news flash, Rourke. I don’t particularly like you either.” Glaring, I added, “Mytoneobviously mirrors my feelings of disgust and possible hatred, though that I’m still undetermined of.”

Rourke smiled at me.

Why the hell was he smiling at me?

“You don’t hate me,” he replied with a grin.

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