Page 4 of Scornful

"Yeah! Please? I'llliterallybe the only girl there in basic shoes if you don't let me."

God, I can barely remember what it was like for my biggest worry to be my shoes.

"Fine, but if you scuff them, you're buffing them back to perfect condition."

She squeals and throws her arms around me. "You're the best sister ever!"

"Mmhmm. Tell that to my favorite sweater you 'borrowed' and returned with a coffee stain."

She grins nervously. "It looks better with character."

Ingrid notices Geirolf then, and her eyes widen slightly before her face settles into a calculating look I know all too well.

She's too observant for her own good.

"Hi, Gandolf," she says, voice suddenly syrupy sweet. "Taking care of my big sister?"

"Trying to," he responds, the corner of his mouth lifting. "She's making it difficult. And, little girl, the only one who gets to call me that cool ass wizard is your sis here."

"She always does," Ingrid agrees, ignoring my glare. "It's like a hobby for her."

"Don't you have homework or something?" I grit, needing her to go and make this situation less awkward.

Ingrid rolls her eyes dramatically. "It's Friday night. Even nerds don't do homework on Fridays."

"Then go bother someone your own age," I suggest, giving her shoulder a gentle push. "Pretty sure I saw Gunnar and Bjorn by the pool table."

With one last glance between Geirolf and me, Ingrid bounces away, leaving an awkward silence in her wake.

"Your sister's going to be trouble," Geirolf observes.

"Already is," I agree. "But she's got a good heart. Dad's going to have his hands full when she starts dating."

"Ifhe lets her." Geirolf's tone is wry. "Your father's protectiveness is legendary."

I think about how fiercely Dad guarded me after Mom died, how he vetted every friend, every activity, every moment of freedom.

How that protectiveness somehow hasn’t saved me from Laken.

The thought of my—ex/first love—sends a chill through me, the memory of his voice in the back of my mind.

"Yeah, well, look how well that turned out for me," I mutter, taking another swig of beer.

Geirolf studies me, his expression impossible to read, just like always. "The asshole who hurt you," he says quietly. "You never talk about him."

I tense. "Nothing to talk about."

"Bullshit, princess"

I blink, surprised by the edge in his voice. "Excuse me?"

"I said bullshit, princess." His eyes harden, a flash of anger that isn't directed at me but rather for me. "I've seen you flinch when someone raises their voice. I've watched you check every exit when you enter a room. I've noticed how your smile doesn't reach your eyes half the time, and whenever you have the fuckin’sense to be “rid” of him for the ten minutes you are, you’re happier for it."

My throat tightens. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" He leans closer, his voice dropping so only I can hear. "I know what it looks like when someone's been hurt, Astrid. I've seen enough of it in my life."

I stare at him, caught between anger and a strange, terrible relief that someone sees through me.

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