Page 68 of Brutal Vows
Surprised, I stop short in the doorway and look at him.
His eyes are bloodshot. His hair’s a mess. He’s wearing the same shirt he had on yesterday, the one with the rip through the shoulder and bloodstains down the sleeve.
He looks strung out. Dangerously wired. As if he was up all night mainlining cocaine.
“Good morning,” I say cautiously.
His gaze drags over me like a rake over hot coals. His voice comes out rough. “You all right?”
“Yes. Why, did something happen while I was asleep?”
He shakes his head, then shoves a hand through his hair. He stares at me for a moment, then turns away abruptly and starts to pace back and forth in front of the island with his hands propped on his hips and his brows drawn down.
This is normally where I’d make a smart remark about his calm and cheery personality, but there’s something different about him today. His thunderclouds have a heavier aspect. He’s all charged nerves and crackling tension, and it makes me worried.
I take a few hesitant steps into the kitchen. “Quinn?”
He makes a sharp cutting motion with his hand and growls.
I put my hands up. “Okay.”
Ignoring him, I set the oven to preheat. Then I head to the fridge and start pulling things out. Next, I hit the pantry. I put everything on the counter by the stove, start a pot of coffee, and begin to chop veggies and prep for the meal.
Behind me, Quinn paces back and forth. Every so often, he huffs, sounding like a bull pawing the ground before it charges.
I fight the almost overpowering urge to turn around and give him a hug.
He drops heavily into a chair, exhales in a gust, then groans. The sound is low and full of misery.
When I turn to look at him, he’s got his elbows propped on the kitchen table. His eyes are closed and his head is gripped in his hands, his hair sticking through his fingers.
Without saying a word, I pour coffee into a big mug, add a teaspoon of sugar, and set the mug in front of him. Then I go back to cooking and ignore him again.
After a while, he says in a low voice, “How did you know I take my coffee black with sugar?”
Beating eggs in a mixing bowl, I smile to myself. “You seem like a man who likes a little sweetness but doesn’t want anyone to know it.”
Grouchy as hell, he snaps, “Aye? Any other witty observations you’d like to share?”
“Drink your coffee. It’s too early to argue.”
For the next ten minutes, we don’t speak. With words, anyway.He sits and throws lightning bolts at my back, which I deflect with a calm that only seems to incense him more.
I can tell he’s spoiling for a fight, but I won’t give it to him.
Twice, he jolts up from the table and refills his mug from the coffeepot, only to return to the table, fling himself into a chair again, and recommence brooding.
After he lets out his third loud grumble in as many minutes, I’ve had enough.
I stop what I’m doing, cross to the table, pull up a chair beside him, and say quietly, “What is it? I’m worried about you.”
Stunned, he blinks at me.
“I’m serious, Quinn. I want to know what’s wrong. Please tell me.”
He blinks again. “Did… did you just say ‘please’?”
“Cut the bullshit. What’s happened?”
