Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 117363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“Okay,” Jeremy said, so readily Jean could only stare at him. “If Lucas asks, I’ll tell him it’s off the table. Grayson can take his issues up with a therapist.”
“Like Wayne did.” Jean considered that. “Maybe he will also kill himself.”
“That isn’t a joke,” Jeremy said, with unexpected ferocity.
Cat winced but kept her eyes on Jean. “Babe, you really might want to consider some therapy of your own.”
“I don’t need—”
Jean had heard the sink cut on, but the sudden press of something warm and wet against his injured neck had him lashing out instinctively. He caught Laila high across her face, knocking her head back and sending her stumbling away from him. Cat was past him in a heartbeat to steady her. Jean took advantage of their distraction to put space between them, scrubbing at his skin as rough as he could to smear away the damp heat.
Cat muttered in agitated Spanish as she took the paper towel from Laila’s fingers. Jean saw the too-familiar red of fresh blood before Cat put the towel to Laila’s nose. Jean folded his arms tight across his chest to watch and wait for the inevitable retaliation.
When Cat was finally satisfied that the bleeding had stopped, she shoved Jeremy out of her way and put a finger in Jean’s face. “Don’t you ever hit her again,” she said without an ounce of her usual good humor. “Do you understand?”
“I can’t promise I won’t,” Jean said.
Cat waited a beat, then demanded, “Aren’t you even going to apologize?”
Surely she was joking, but Jean stared down into her upturned face and saw nothing but muted frustration. There was no violence in her despite the tension in her shoulders and how quickly she’d come for him. Jean meant to mock her for being weak-willed, but his, “Implying that words would somehow be enough to settle this?” came out more curious than anything else. “Blood is only satisfied by blood; words do not qualify as contrition.”
“Are you serious?” Cat demanded, but maybe she already knew the answer, because she bulled on with, “I’m mad as hell, yeah, but even I know you didn’t mean to do it. Slapping you wouldn’t make any of us feel better, so forget that right now.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You are not okay,” Cat said. “You see that, right?”
Jean looked past her to Laila. She at least should be ready to exact retribution, but she kept her distance. The look on her face was sharp and prying. Jean wasn’t sure what to make of it, but he offered an obedient, “I’m sorry.”
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” she said. She gave him time to come up with rebuttals or excuses, but there was no point lying when all of them had eyes. Laila relaxed a bit when no arguments were forthcoming and said, “You going to explain what that was about?”
“No,” Jean said.
“He hit you too,” Cat guessed, and pointed at Jean’s chest. “Did he do that?”
“I was injured in a scrimmage.”
“The hell you were. What did he do to you?”
“I will not talk about him with you.”
“You said I could ask about the Ravens,” Jeremy reminded him. “We’re asking.”
“Not Grayson,” Jean stressed, and was not above adding a desperate, “Please.”
Begging had never saved him from Riko’s cruelty, but Riko still liked to hear it. The memory of Riko’s hungry smile was so sharp Jean almost felt it against his skin. In front of him Jeremy’s expression gentled into something sad and earnest. Jean refused to believe they would so easily give him an out here, but when Jeremy spoke it was only to say, “Not Grayson, then. I’m sorry if we upset you.”
Jean waited for the mask to drop, but Jeremy only stepped backwards out of his space. A few moments later Cat went back to work, and Laila returned to the stool at Jeremy’s side. She was the one who slid his knife back to him, and Jean let his fingers rest on the blade as he waited for any of this to make sense.
Weakness and vulnerability were unforgivable crimes on the Raven lineup, as they were only as strong as their weakest player. Anyone who faltered or failed had to be corrected. That he could become so undone by a single name was an unforgivable flaw, and they had every right to tear at him until he learned to hide his wounds better. Instead, they quietly went back to what they’d been doing before the phone call.
Finally, Jeremy asked, “Do you want to talk about Wayne?”
Wayne was a neutral topic, at least, and something to drag his thoughts out of shadowed rooms and blood. Jean slowly went through the rest of his peppers as he told them about the ornery striker. Stats were an obvious starting point, though they likely had vague knowledge of his numbers from facing the Ravens in championships. From there it was alarmingly easy to share more subjective memories of the man. He shouldn’t, he knew. What happened in the Nest should stay in the Nest. But Jean was not a Raven, and Wayne was dead.