Page 43 of The Dead Don't Talk
Amo
Listening to the deepthrum of Wilson’s voice through the ear I have pressed into his chest and Moros’s deeper tone has lulled me into some weird sense of quiet and peace.
Half the shit they’re saying is chock full of terrible ideas about heads on sticks or whatever.
But I’m in Wilson’s lap. And Moros has built us a fire that’s cooking our dinner. It’s a roast of some kind and smells so good that my stomach rumbles.
Part of me almost wishes we could just stay out here. Together, forever, just the three of us. Where the dead don’t talk.
Deep down I know, though, that the community is hiding its toxicity and something needs to be done about it.
I always suspected there was bias in the decisions that were made, especially when I was assigned to live with Cassia. I adore her, and most people around us know we’re close, but I never intended to spend forever with her.
She’s the kind of soul that speaks to mine, just in a different way than Moros and Wilson do.
Which makes us great friends, the best of friends.
Does she know the truth?
“We just walk in.”
Both guys’ lips snap shut, and I feel the warmth of their stares along my back where Wilson was just stroking.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
Sighing, I push off from Wilson’s chest just enough to look at both their handsome faces.
“Just like this. We walk in. Make them face us. Accept us. Or condemn us in front of the entire community.”
“The three of us?” Wilson asks skeptically.
“He might have a point.”
I can’t hide the shock that widens my eyes when Moros agrees with me, his sight rolling at my reaction.
“It’s hard to ignore what’s right in front of you,” I add, my words laced with double meaning, though they don’t know both.
I swear it makes Moros eyes soften in the firelight, and the fingers curled into my hip tighten.
“What if they hurt him, Moros?” My sweet Wilson asks, and I bite my lip.
“They won’t,” Moros answers. His intense gaze is locked on me, his sincerity making my chest clench.
I really think he means that.
“So that’s what we’re doing? But then what?” Wilson asks.
Watching the darkness spread over Moros’s face at his question shouldn’t make me clench my thighs, but it does.
“We take the motherfuckers—all the elders. We’ll make them listen.”
My nod is automatic, and my smile slips into a smirk.
As much as these two try to pretend they’re content with things as they were, there’s an element to them both that I feel deep in my bones.
They’re meant to lead.
To inspire.
