Page 59 of The Dead Don't Talk
The whole room seems to go quieter in his presence.
Even Kyrt, who has since fixed himself and wiped the sweat from his brow, stiffens.
“Evening, sire,” the little shit mumbles, his eyes rolling the second the newcomer takes a seat on the couch. In the same spot Kyrt was huddled up with Derek in.
The old guy ignores him, and even though I don’t know Kyrt and he seems like the type to earn it, that pisses me off.
How disrespectful.
Apparently, Moros thinks so, too, because he’s inching closer to the man and flexing his fists at his sides, a wave of something unpleasant emanating from him.
“To what could I possibly owe this …pleasure…” The elder’s deep, dark, and knowing gaze lands on my man and narrows in an all too familiar fashion. “Moros?”
Does everyone really know his name like that?
Moros lunges before I can get an attitude about it, his fingers finding the elder’s throat and squeezing.
“Oh, shit!” I jump onto his back, pulling and yanking. “Moros!Stop.” It does me no good to yell but I am as he presses the elder into the cushions with a growl.
The elder’s eyes bug and his nails dig into my Moros’s wrist, and still he doesn’t stop pushing him lower. Squeezing the breath from him. Making his eyes pop wide.
“You …monster,” the elder eeks out past his crushed throat and smashes into Moros’s arm. His face is growing redder, a vein popping up on his forehead.
“You’re the monster,” Moros snarls.
“Mor—”
A band around my ribs steals my breath, and my feet hit the ground before I can catch my legs, and I end up tumbling to the pile of fluff in the middle of the room with a screech. I know it was Wilson by his familiar feel, but that doesn’t stop the rage that bubbles up.
If Moros thinks this guy is a monster, then so do I.
“Let him go,” Wilson grinds out when I wing around, pushing to my feet among the pile.
“Ithisfault!Him!” Moros yells in his arms, flailing against his hold as he squeezes the elder tighter.
Seeing him like this … the worry marring Wilson brow … it’s making me queasy.
And yet not a single other person attempts to intervene. In fact, they’ve all backed away and stare at the scene unfolding with wide wary eyes.
All of them except Kyrt.
He’s watching it like this is a play in town center on a Friday night and the story is about to get good.
“W-Wilson,” I murmur and step closer, touching his arm.
He flinches.
My stomach tenses up and I hold his arm tighter.
They’ve both gone into this … silent rage that’s worrying me and it’s all because of this stranger? Something had to have happened, right?
Otherwise, I don’t understand why my sweet Wilson would struggle so hard to break Moros free. And why Moros would flip a switch. He’s always been quite hotheaded and snarky, but this isdifferent.
And I can’t help but think that it’s deserved.
Though as much as I wish for Wilson to let him go, for this thing between them to be over, I can’t let them take Moros from us.
“C’mon, asshole,” I tell Moros softly and reach beneath Wilson to grab him. “Let him go.”
