Page 67 of Hemlock

His name is Pax, and I sort of hate that I didn't learn that from him. I had to hear it from someone else.

My frustration continues to grow as he stares at the door as if he expects it to blow open at any minute.

The handgun is resting on his thigh, forefinger along the barrel, but I know he can move it to the trigger without even thinking.

He's a warrior, a man very capable of protecting the both of us if it came down to it. I don't know how to convince him that I don't think that would be necessary.

"Were you dropped on your head as a kid?" I ask, wanting a serious answer because it's clear that we're not in any danger down here.

Maybe he's in the middle of a psychotic break and I'm not as safe as I want to believe that I am right now.

"Not that I know of," he answers without a hint of humor in his voice.

"You took me from my home," I remind him. "Why bring me back here if it's dangerous?"

"I didn't know he'd be here," he growls. "He doesn't fucking live here, yet he's always around."

"Jericho?" I ask.

He shakes his head. He must be talking about the other silver-haired guy, but I can't recall what his name is or if I've ever even been told what the other guy's name is.

"You don't have to worry about Jericho."

"Do I have to worry about you?"

The words slip out before I can stop them. I need the answer because I don't think he's ever lied to me. Lies of omission yes, but other than his name I don't think he's blatantly told me something untrue. If anything he has constantly warned me away from him.

Only now does he turn around and face me, and even with the angry look on his face, I find that I like it when I have his attention.

His eyes skate over my body, and now that I know he wants to protect me, his attention feels different. I don't feel like he's searching for flaws, but rather he's checking every part of me to make sure I'm okay.

"What would you do if I tried to leave here?"

"Do you want to leave?"

I shake my head, seeing relief flash in his eyes with my confession.

"Does that make me insane?"

That dimple deepens for the briefest of seconds. "Probably."

"You care about me," I whisper.

"It's dangerous."

"It's? or you?"

"Both," he says, and I can see the pain on his face with his response.

He doesn't want to be a danger to me, but there's something about him or the way he lives that would make our connection high-risk.

I reposition myself, sitting cross-legged on the bed so I can fully face him.

"You think I'm in danger?"

"I know you're in danger. The world, every day is fucking dangerous."

"But not from your friends?"

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