Page 135 of Power
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SCARLETT
“You know Axel?” My eyes darted between Axel and Dakota, feeling like I’d stumbled into the middle of a Western standoff.
Wearing a pair of blue jeans and a white T-shirt, Dakota should have looked every part the casual woman. But casual wasn’t in the dictionary when her tiny arms folded over her chest, her eyes narrowed to lethal slits as she tried to assassinate Axel with her glower.
“You mean Satan’s spawn? Yes. Unfortunately, I do know him.” Her voice dripped with the kind of venom usually reserved for tax auditors and people who talked during movies.
“How?” I asked, suddenly fascinated by whatever cosmic joke had connected these two.
“He was my brother’s best friend,” Dakota said, each word clipped.
“Is,” Axel snarled, leaning forward. “Present tense. Knox is still my best friend.”
“Can someone hand me that bag of chips?” Jace interrupted, extending his hand. “This is a show that deserves treats.”
“Knox?” I questioned.
“My brother,” Dakota clarified, her eyes never leaving Axel.
“Your brother?” I repeated like some deranged parrot.
“Seriously, that bag of chips, please.” Jace waggled his fingers impatiently.
“I don’t think you should be eating potato chips yet,” Blake said, slipping effortlessly into doctor mode. “Your digestive system is still?—”
“Since when does a stab wound affect my cholesterol level?” Jace countered. “Did they rewire my arteries while I was under?”
“Your body is healing,” Blake insisted. “Maybe start with something less?—”
“Save the lecture. Pass the chips.”
Ryker rolled his eyes and finally made himself useful by grabbing the chips and tossing them to Jace. “Here. Die happy.”
“Finally.” Jace opened the bag with the reverence of a man unwrapping a priceless artifact. He popped one into his mouth, making sure to chomp loud as hell.
Axel shot him a death glare, so Jace smirked. And chomped louder.
“Maybe we should give them some space,” Ryker suggested, eyeing the door.
“Absolutely not,” Jace said between crunches. “I’m not missing whatever this is.” He gestured between Dakota and Axel with a chip, dropping crumbs on his hospital gown.
“You never talked about your brother with me.” I tried not to feel hurt by Dakota’s revelation. She knew virtually everything about my life—from my father’s abuse to that mortifying incident with the mechanical bull last year (which we’d sworn never to speak of again). So, why wouldn’t she share something this basic about her family?
She met my eyes, her expression apologetic and haunted, the anger momentarily replaced with something raw. “Because he’s in prison. For murder.”
Holy. Shit.
The room went silent, except for Jace’s crunching.
“Dude, read the room,” Ryker hissed, smacking Jace’s arm.
Suddenly, everything about Dakota’s behavior over the yearsclicked into place: how she’d dodge questions about her family, changed the subject whenever siblings came up. Maybe this even explained why she was so careful about her social media empire. One headline about her murderer brother, and her business could crumble overnight.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked softly.
“It’s not exactly easy to drop into conversation.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Hey, want to grab lunch? Oh, and by the way, my brother’s a convicted murderer. The spinach artichoke dip is amazing here.”
