Page 38 of The Wrecked One

“I may have trouble being touched, but I won’t let The Collective take all of me, especially not my will to fight back.” Shit, my eyes became glossy at my admission, and he slowly turned my way.

I flicked away the inconvenient drops of liquid that’d escaped, doing my best to discard the emotions along with the tears.

His mouth tightened, remaining quiet.

“We’ve gone after multiple targets since”—I swallowed—“Thailand, and like always, before we can question them, they mysteriously die. Eight families in total have been eliminated since we began hunting them last year.”

He frowned, then opened the bag of pancakes, placing a few on the pan as the kettle whistled.

“So, you must know that the Sorens are still alive and haven’t been taken out, despite the fact we know their names, which is strange.”

I crossed my arms again, waiting for him to confirm he knew that, too, but he ignored me. “We’d thought The Collective sat at some ‘knights of the round table’ thing, where no one family had more power than the other, but there’s always someone who emerges as leader of the pack.” I waited for a reaction. Still nothing. He kept busying himself with preparing breakfast. “What if the Sorens are still alive because they’re in control of the whole Collective? Maybe they’re at the top of the hierarchy.”

He flipped the pancakes. “How long did you say your team will be gone again?”

“What the actual hell?” I’d hit my breaking point at handling his casual aloofness. “That’s your response to everything I’ve said? What’s wrong with you?”

“A lot. Should be fairly fucking obvious by now.” He didn’t bother to look at me, solely fixed on the task of preparing the pancakes.

“And only my team, huh?” When he didn’t acknowledge me, I pulled out the chair and dropped down. “Would you please talk to me?” Damn the desperation in my tone, but hell, I wasn’t above begging. I needed answers. “Tell me how you already know everything, and explain what you were doing in Europe at that hotel.”

“You came here uninvited.” Spatula down, he finally faced me. “I didn’t want you here, and I still don’t want you here.” He zeroed in on my mouth and hissed, “I’m not on the team anymore, and I don’t belong with them as much as you don’t belong in this kitchen.” His chest heaved up and down as he stared at me.

Before I could figure out what to say next, he turned off the stove and abandoned the pancakes, retreating from the room and our conversation.

By the time I caught up with him, he was cursing and holding his shoulder in the living room. “Would you look at me?” I pleaded.

“No,” he bit out, keeping his back to me.

“Why not?” I was tempted to circle him, but I had a feeling he’d be a stubborn kid and shift away if I did.

“Because, dammit, if I look at you, I’ll . . .”

“You’ll what?” My voice broke, the pain from our shared past catching up to me.

He cradled his head as if he had a migraine, or was on the verge of losing control. “I can’t do this. I can’t look at you anymore and not . . . not remember. It’s too hard. Harder than I thought it’d be.”

The pain in his tone. Holy fuck, the pain. It broke me all over again.

Unable to stop myself, I crossed the creaky floorboards and lifted my hand and wrapped it over his shoulder. He flinched from my touch, but I didn’t. My thoughts raced as I continued to hold him, and he slowly lowered his hands from his head and lifted one up over his shoulder.

I thought he was going to remove my touch, but instead, he gently rested his hand on top of mine. Tears welled in my eyes at how good it felt to be this close to him. To breathe in his scent. To have his thumb slowly skating in small, sweeping movements up and down my pinkie, and not panic.

“Do you hate me for what you had to do?” I pushed out the horrible words that’d been eating at me for months. The guilt and blame. The shame at the sacrifices he’d made for me.

He pulled his hand away and stepped forward, and my arm fell to my side like a broken branch as tears slid down my cheeks.

From over his shoulder, his eyes met mine. His hands were balled at his sides as if curtailing his desire to hold me, worried he’d startle or scare me if he tried.

“I only hate myself,” he said hoarsely before making a quick exit.

Remaining in place, unsure what to do, I looked out the window to see him approach his father. He peeled off his shirt and flung it to the side before Sam handed him an ax.

Oliver lifted the ax and brought it down hard onto a block of wood on a tree stump, his face screwed up tight as if the motion had caused him pain. He split the thick piece of wood in half before immediately dropping the ax to hold his shoulder.

Dammit, Oliver. What in the hell am I going to do with you?

13

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