Page 117 of Riot Rules
Wren sighs. “Chill, Mendoza. I came to make peace.”
“This isn’t who you were expecting?” Cyndi’s protective as hell over me. She knows all about Fitz, and the attack, and all manner of other things I’ve told her about Wolf Hall. She’s watched every single report about Fitz’s arrest on the local news stations. She glowers at Wren with open suspicion.
“Elodie had to take care of something,” Wren says, ignoring Cyndi. “She asked if I’d come collect you. I figured it would be a good opportunity to come and apologize.”
“Apologize?” An apology from Wren is an alien concept. I can’t wrap my head around it. “Tell Elodie I’ll wait until later, when she’s free.”
“You’ll be waiting a while. She went back to Tel Aviv to pack up the rest of her stuff. Won’t be back for a week.”
“Don’t worry, Carrie. I’ll drive you up to the school when my shift ends.” Cyndi scowls at Wren, popping open the trunk again, but Wren grins sardonically at her, slamming it closed again.
“Come on, Mendoza. Aren’t you even slightly intrigued by what I have to say?”
I fold my arms across my chest. “That’s always been your problem, hasn’t it? You’ve always placed way too much stock in whatyouhave to say.”
He nods, looking off over his shoulder, squinting into the distance. “That’s potentially true. And I’m sorry for that.”
Speechless. I’m speechless.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
Wren laughs nervously, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Come on. I’m serious. I want to make things right, Carina. Please…just get in the car.”
I’m a creative person. My imagination is second to none. I could never have conjured this into existence, though. Wren Jacobi: Contrite. Humble. Pleading.
“I think you’d better leave,” Cyndi says.
“Wait.” God, I am going to regret this. “I have a witness,” I snap at him. “Cyndi, if I don’t text and let you know that I’m okay in half an hour—”
Wren rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ, and I thought Mercy had cornered the market on melodrama. I’m not gonna do anything to you, Mendoza.” He goes around the other side of the car and opens up the passenger side for me.
“Are you sure? I really don’t mind driving you later,” Cyndi says.
I roll my eyes as I carefully fold myself into the Firebird, wincing at the stab of pain that shoots through my abdomen when I lean back against the seat. “It’s okay. If anything, I might end up killinghimby the time we reach the academy.”
Wren fist pumps. “That’s the spirit.”
* * *
The motherfucker doesn’t take me back to the academy. He stops halfway up the long, winding road and takes a left, pulling into the driveway of Riot House. He groans when I take out my phone and start tapping at the screen. “What are you doing, Mendoza?”
“Dialing 911.”
He swears under his breath, snatching the phone from me and locking the screen. “For fuck’s sake, chill the fuck out! Doesn’t the fact that I carried you through thick forest while almost bleeding out myself buy meanyfucking brownie points? I just wanna talk.”
Trust him to bringthatup. I am grateful to him for carrying me so far, when he was so badly hurt. Without a shadow of a doubt, I’d be dead if he hadn’t. I’m still figuring out how to process the fact that I owe my life to not one buttwoRiot House boys. That doesn’t mean that it’s okay for him to manipulate me like this, though. “Bullshit. You tricked me into coming here, so I wouldn’t have a choice but to see him.”
Wren knows exactly whichhimI’m referring to. He looks me in the eye, holding his hand up as if about to make a pledge. “He isn’t here, Mendoza. Pax is out, too. It’s just me. I swear it on my life.”
I snort. “You’ll have better luck convincing me if you swear on something that actuallymattersto me.”
“On Elodie, then,” he says. His face is very serious. I may hate the guy, but I do think he cares about Elodie. Loves her, even. I don’t think he’d ever swear something onherlife and be lying.
I have no choice but to trust him.
He helps me into the house and gets me settled on the couch in the living room, and then goes into the kitchen to make me a cup of tea. Meanwhile, I try not to flinch at the memories of everything that’s happened here.
Wren returns, gingerly carrying an overly full cup of milky liquid, which he sets down on the coffee table in front of me. “I made it the English way,” he says awkwardly. “I figured—I don’t know. That was dumb. I can make a fresh one if you—”
