Page 109 of Scornful

Her body language screams that she’s uncomfortable, but he grabs her arm when she tries to walk away.

It’s almost like staring right into a mirror—me with Laken.

"I'll be right back," I tell Mom, already heading for the door.

By the time I reach them, Dylan's smiling again, that false charm that probably fools most people. "Hey, Astrid. I’m just heading out."

"Everything okay?" I direct the question to Everly, who won't meet my eyes.

"Fine. Dylan has to work tomorrow, so..." She shrugs, still not looking at me.

"Actually, babe, I'm thinking you should come with me," Dylan says. "This whole lockdown thing is getting old."

"She's safer here," I interject. "With the Patriot still out there?—"

"Right, the boogeyman everyone's so scared of." His laugh is mocking. "Maybe if your club didn't make so many enemies?—"

"Dylan." Everly's voice is sharp. "Don't."

He raises his hands in mock surrender. "Whatever. Stay here then. But don't call me crying about being stuck in this place."

He drives off without saying goodbye properly, and Everly's shoulders slump.

"Don't," she says before I can speak. "Just... not today, okay?"

I want to push, to show her those bruises aren't love, but I remember being where she is.

You can't force someone to see what they're not ready to see.

"I'm here," I’m trying to be a good friend to her, but eventually, I’m going to end up giving her tough love. "Whenever you're ready."

She nods, hurrying back inside.

I follow slowly, worry gnawing at me.

One crisis at a time, I remind myself.

First the Patriot, then I can deal with Everly dating a known douche-canoe.

I get back inside and notice families have settled into different locations across the room.

Men discuss tomorrow's plans in low voices, women organizing leftovers, kids passed out in turkey comas.

I find myself on the back deck despite the chill, needing air after the crowded day. "Hiding?" Geirolf joins me, draping his arm around my shoulders.

"Thinking." I lean into him. "Next year will be different, won't it?"

"Yeah, it better." He turns me to face him. "The compound we found? It's solid intel. Ortega's coordinating on his end. Between us and the cops, the Patriot's got nowhere to run."

"And after? When he's gone?"

His hands frame my face. "Then we start livin’ instead of just survivin’. Add on to the cabin. Fill it with kids. Make a real life."

"How many kids?" I tease.

"Many as you'll give me." His thumbs stroke my cheeks. "Want a whole pack of little hellions with your eyes and my stubbornness."

"God help us all." I laugh, but the image he paints—our children running through our own home—he makes me want it.

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