Page 79 of Inside the Sun

"I don’t get it."

"Seriously? That makes me a monster. I’m just sitting here, listening to how you suffer, doing nothing."

We lock eyes. And suddenly, I understand: he’s right. I’m telling him about the nightmare I’m trapped in like it’s no big deal. He can’t help, and the casualnormalizationof it bothers him. The guy’s got a conscience, which makes it even more tragic, because now, in a way, we’re both held hostage by the mafia.

"That’s not what I meant," I whisper. "I wasn’t trying to—"

"You open up to someone, you share what you’re going through, and still, nothing. Yet another shot at help… just slipping away."

He’s rightagain. A deep part of me was hoping he’d do something, anything, to help. But he can’t just bust me out of here. I can’t risk my family.

"Sorry," I say quietly, lowering my head. "This is just my everyday now. I just wanted to feel free from it, even for a minute."

"I get it. But I simply don’t want to be the reason you feel even worse."

Taking a deep breath, I promise myself to get a grip. I need to find a better way to claw my way out of this hellhole than latching onto some innocent guy and burdening him with my tragedy.

I glance at his arm. For a moment, I study his falcon tattoo. It's artistic, beautiful, and seems almost alive.

There’s also a thin line there, on his skin, could be a scar. Maybe I could ask him about it, but it’s probably too soon. Who knows, maybe it's a painful memory, and who am I to pry into his private affairs.

Instead, my eyes drift to the veins standing out on his forearm. His hands look strong, masculine, sexy, if you can even say that about hands. For a second, I try to catch his Allure again, but I can’t. The blockers are on. All I get is soap, bodywash, freshly cut grass. For a gardener, he smells clean and good.

"You on suppressants?"

He raises his brows slightly. "I am."

"Why? You don’t exactly work in a corporate air-conditioned office where your employer would care."

He lets out a soft snort.

"People take suppressants for all kinds of reasons. I work around guys who are regularly involved in violent situations. When they come back from that, they’re still pumped full of adrenaline and testosterone. The strong scent of another alpha can set them off even more. Same reason they use suppressants in the military, in law enforcement. In any high-stress job."

"I didn’t know that. But yeah, that makes sense," I nod. "Smart move, reducing the risk. I wish I could be like that. But I’m the opposite, I just make things worse. Always diving headfirst into the stupidest shit," I admit, a little embarrassed.

He gives me a quick glance but doesn’t ask anything. I’ve already told him too much.

"I was just curious because I’m still figuring this out, you know? The sniffing. I only started picking up on pheromones about a year ago. That’s when my glands matured."

He blinks, lifting his tanned face to me, staring at me with mild shock. "A year ago? So how old are you?"

"Turned eighteen two months ago."

His face twists in horror. He mutters a curse under his breath. "Holy shit! You’re that young?" He adds, "You look older," and I see him swallow. A faint flush creeps into his cheek.

Well… under normal circumstances, I might smile a little smugly. His reaction definitely hints at some less-than-innocent thoughts about me. But now? Nothing’s funny.

"Just don’t treat me like a kid," I mutter.

"It’s not that," he says. "It’s just… I can’t wrap my head around how someone like Anzo could do this…" He stops suddenly, like he’s realized he said too much.

"He didn’t know," I admit. "I mean, when he first saw me, it’s not like I have my birth date plastered on my forehead. But now? Yeah, he definitely knows."

His reaction is no surprise. I do really look older. People usually think I’m twenty. I’m tall, well-built, and probably still growing. My alpha brothers are all six-foot-six, seven or even six-foot-eight.

"What about you? How old are you?"

"Twenty-four," he says tersely, going back to cleaning the pot.

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