Page 88 of Scorch

I shake my head in grim determination. “We'll see about that.”

“God, you seem to think the best thing is to find him and fuck him up,” I tell her. “Then we can both sleep in peace.”

She throws her hands up in the air. “Will we, though? What about the next threat? What about the next person who wants to hurt me? What are you gonna do then, bubble wrap me? Chain me to the floor?”

She glares at me, and I glare right back. “I will chain you to the fucking floor if that's what it takes.”

“Hot, Viktor,” she says through gritted teeth. “That’s not toxic at all.”

“Woman…”

I bend her head back and kiss her, silently pleading for her to give in. To understand. To accept.

But when I pull away, she doesn’t meet my eyes.

Have I gone too far?

We meet Nikko and Vera outside the range, Nikko giving me a wary look. He hasn't forgiven me for not talking to his wife the way he thinks I should. He can kiss my ass.

I am in a fucking mood, and so is Lydia. I reach for her hand, and she yanks it away. Vera's eyebrows rise in mild surprise, but I only open the door to the car, and as Lydia starts to climb in, I slap her ass, hard. .

“Hey!” she exclaims. I lean in and kiss her cheek.

“Behave yourself. You're not letting this come between us.”

She gets into the car and shuts the door. Vera chatters on about plans for the wedding, and Lydia participates, but I can tell she is reserved.

I don't know how to explain to her what it means to me to have her with me. I don't know how to explain to her how important it is that I keep her safe. I don't know if her objections hold a candle to what I certainly know to be true.

“Your mother wants to know if you want any candles at the reception,” Vera says, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Yes,” Lydia and I say in unison. Vera smirks. Lydia turns away, looking out the window.

“Do you want a photographer?”

“No,” we both snap in unison. Lydia blows out a breath and sulks, but I crack a smile as Vera jots it down on her phone.

“Music? Do you want music?”

“Music would be nice,” Lydia says. “And Viktor would probably say?—”

“I don't care. Do what you want.”

“That’s what I was going to say you’d say,” she mutters.

“Music it is,” Vera says, jotting it down.

She turns away from me, looking out the window. The drive to her family home is mostly quiet until we get a few miles away.

“Do you remember how we used to throw rocks at that little pond behind the house?” she asks Vera as she traces the edge of the door lock with her fingernail. “And how Mom would get so mad because our clothes would get all mud-streaked and stained.”

“Hard to forget,” Vera says with a smile. She turns her head to speak to Lydia over her shoulder. “Mom didn’t care so much; it was Father who’d lose his mind.”

“Mmm.” Lydia nods. “And we didn’t want him to yell at her, so we started wearing those smocks when we went down to the river. Remember?”

Vera laughs out loud. “Oh my God, I do remember. How could I forget? You told Mom it was for an art project.”

I shake my head. “Causing trouble even then.” I squeeze her knee, but she still doesn’t look at me.

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