Page 16 of Riot Reunion
Cold fury burns in Wren’s beautiful, vivid green eyes; they flash with malice as he stews on this new turn of events. “Then why would he even bother? And why would that reporter harass you instead of me?” he seethes.
It dawns on me, then; it makes perfect sense. “Because he knows that the only real way to affect you is by messing with me. That's why you're so upset right now, isn't it? You’re worried that Archer guy was right—that there’ll be a fresh onslaught of reporters botheringmenow? That the media will call me a liar?”
Wren blasts a sharp breath down his nose. “You're damn right that's what I'm worried about.”
“He's reaching for your attention. He's doing it the best way he knows how. How many times has he written to you now? Five times? Six?”
Wren’s nostrils flare unhappily. He told me about the first two emails he got from Fitz, but he refrained from telling me about the ones that followed. I slept badly after I found out that psychopath was trying to contact him, and I suppose Wren didn't want to worry me any more than I already was. I could tell when it happened, though—the nights at dinner when we were traveling through Europe, and he would sit silently, swirling his fork through his food, lost in such deep thoughts that I could hardly even reach him. It took days for him to return to himself after every incident. I hated the fact that he didn't want to concern me with it when it clearly bothered him so much.
“Yeah,” he says uncomfortably. “Something like that.”
“And how many times did you respond to him?”
“Never! I wouldn't give that piece of shit the pleasure of even knowing that I'd read his messages.”
“Precisely. So if he thinks you won't respond to him when he reaches out to you, what's his next plan of attack going to be? Naturally, he's gonna try and affectmesomehow. That’ll always get your attention. He knows you’d do anything to protect me. So he’ll come for me again and again, until he finally elicits a reaction from you and you communicate with him directly. I’m guessing that’s all that he wants—to know that he's still capable of inserting himself into your life in whatever small way he can manage.”
Wren growls, frustrated, the growl turning into a roar. His body vibrates as he clenches his hands into fists and lets out an infuriated shout. It's good for him to get this out. “This is ridiculous,” Wren spits. “Once someone’s convicted of multiple murders, they shouldn't be able to contact the witnesses who gave evidence against them. I swear to God, if any of those journalists evenslightlyinconvenience you in the tiniest way, they’re gonna die horrible deaths. They'll regret the day they were born. They—”
“Hey. Hey, it’s all right. Hey! Look at me!” I have to grab his face in my hands before he’ll pay attention to me. “Stop worrying about all of that. They can come after me all they like. It won't bother me. The worst thing you can do is to let it botheryou, Wren. You’ll be giving Fitz exactly what he wants if you do. Here's what's going to happen, okay? We're gonna move into our new place, and we're going to shop for furniture, and we're going to make it beautiful. We going to make itours. We’re gonna decorate for Thanksgiving, and no matter how many times these idiots try to get a rise out of us, we're not going to let them, are we?”
Wren pulls an unhappy face; he can be such a child sometimes. “I'm not making any promises. If one of those bastards oversteps the mark and fucks with you, they're gonna get what they deserve.”
Lord save me from this stubborn, willful man. “And what about whatIdeserve? Do I deserve for my boyfriend to be arrested and charged with assault, when we're just starting our new life together here, in a brand-new town, at a brand-new, highly prestigious school, where I don't know a single soul?”
He rolls his eyes, attempting to step away, but he thinks better of it when I narrow my eyes at him. “I'm not gonna get arrested.” He says this with such certainty that it’s almost as if he trulydoesbelieve that he’s above the law.
“I swear to God, Wren Jacobi. You're gonna be the death of me. Wait here.” I head into the bedroom, searching for and finding my purse. From inside, I take out the small knife he bought for me when we were making our way through Rome. He'd said it would deter pickpockets, that I should only ever pull it on someone if I was serious about using it. Wren arches a cool eyebrow when he sees the weapon in my hand.
“Wow. I thought we'd be together a couple of years before you tried to do me in.”
“Funny.”
“I try.”
“Hold out your hand.”
Wren eyes me suspiciously. “Why?”
“Because I asked you to.”
“To what end?”
“For fuck’s sake, Jacobi. Do as you're told and give me your goddamn hand.”
He relents and does as I've told him, though he pouts about it like a sulky brat. “You're gonna hurt me, aren't y—fuck!Ow!”
I've made the tiniest little nick in the center of his palm—a centimeter long and so shallow it barely draws blood. Wren grouses so loud I might as well have taken off a finger.
“Don't be such a baby. It was barely a scratch.” Repeating the motion, I make an identical cut on the palm of my right hand and slap the hand right over his, so that our palms press flat together. “Now repeat after me,” I tell him.
“Typically, both parties consent when entering into a blood pact,” he says dourly.
“I, Wren Jacobi…”
His eyebrow arches to extreme degrees. I kick him in the shin. “Fucking hell! I, Wren Jacobi…”
“Do solemnly swear to ignore the press and keep my head down. I swear to stay in my lane and keep my fists to myself. And no matter what happens, I will not let Wesley Fitzpatrick cause further undue distress in our lives, in perpetuity—”
