Page 167 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part Two
Storm glowers at me for a hard moment, and I try to spin through the reasons why my words might upset him.
“Are you worried about the vote? If so, don’t stress, because I’m not,” I say.
He rubs the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable.
“What is it?” I press, and he blows out a breath.
“Zane Gibson. He knows that…situation between the two of you is dead, right?”
I gape at him, catching up to the left turn in the conversation. He’s worried about Zane?
“Yes,” I reply. “I made that very clear the last time I saw him.”
He chews on his lip, a rare expression of discomfort.
“What’s going on, Storm?”
He takes a breath, then says, “I believe you and I trust you. I just know if I were in his shoes, I wouldn’t go down without a fight.”
I lift an eyebrow.
“Are you expecting to lose to him?”
It’s a wild question, and he seems to chew on the thought for a second before releasing a breath and smiling.
“Like I said, I trust you,” he replies, placing a kiss on my forehead. “It’s all good. Just stay safe, okay?”
I resist the urge to lean into him.
“Everything’s gonna be fine. For both of us.”
Storm stares at me for a long moment before dropping another quick kiss on my forehead and walking off in the direction of Tempest’s room.
THIRTY-SEVEN
STORM
Itry not to beat myself up for how the morning is going.
Tempest, quite frankly, hates everything. I tell myself not to take it personally, and the second she gives me a rare smile, I forget how hard she’s making me work to gain her trust. But when she accused me of kidnapping herin front of the staffat the Contemporary Museum of Art, I knew I had to move us along to the next activity.
Except the rest of the day doesn’t go much better. It started raining torrentially, putting the kibosh on the rest of my plans—lunch at the botanical garden and a helicopter ride around the city.
Which is why Tempest and I find ourselves back at the house only two hours after leaving.
“I, uh, ordered pizza,” I say as soon as I park the SUV in front of the door. She huffs from her booster in the backseat.
“What kind did you get?” she grumbles.
“Pepperoni,” I reply brightly, hoping that I can change her attitude simply by not getting one with her in return.
“Ugh,” she snaps. “Ihatepepperoni. Why don’t you know that?”
I blink a few times, knowing I’m not tripping. I watched her eat three slices of pepperoni pizza last week.
“Since when?”
“Sinceforever,” she replies. “Duh!”
