Page 8 of Riot

It’s not unusual for him to do things like this, but it makes my throat tight this morning.

I pass her over, and her fingers tangle in his beard the moment she’s close enough to grab him. My heart melts when he presses a kiss into her hair.

I wish Riot was her father.

I slam the door shut on that thought. There’s no point wishing for things that can’t be. I don’t have a time machine or an undo button for shitty mistakes.

“At least someone’s happy to see me this mornin’.” He picks up his fork, hacking at the fried egg on his plate.

I cringe at the mess he’s making. “I’m happy to see you.”

And I am. He has no idea how much it makes my day to see him.

“Your shitty mood says otherwise.”

My mood isn’t because of him, but I don’t feel like explaining my nightmares. No one know about the monsters that chase me through my dreams.

No one ever will.

“I’m in a perfectly good mood,” I protest.

“Clearly.” He watches me while he chews, and I wither under his scrutiny.

“What?”

“Nothin’. Just tryin’ to figure out when this good mood is supposed to make an appearance.”

I roll my eyes. “Probably around the same time as your culinary skills.”

He snorts. “That was low, and there’s nothin’ wrong with my food. You’re eatin’ it, ain’t ya?”

“You like the taste of slightly burnt?”

“It’s only the bacon,” he objects, pulling his chin up to avoid Seren’s fingers.

“Fair. And points for effort, even if your motivation for cooking was selfish.”

“A man’s gotta eat, Vee.” He shrugs. “And you ain’t eating nearly enough considerin’ you’re breastfeeding.”

Thank fuck he chooses that moment to look down at my daughter because him talking about my boobs has my faceflaming. I focus on cutting into my food, trying not to combust or die from embarrassment.

Say something before it gets awkward…

What the hell am I meant to say? Thanks for caring about… my milk?

My brother chooses that moment to make an appearance, and I could kiss him for such perfect timing. Stretching like a bear coming out of hibernation, he yawns and heads straight for the kettle.

“Mornin’,” Toby grunts.

His transition from boy to teenager has been a whirlwind adventure, but lately, he sounds more like Mace and Riot than his school friends.

He also looks like he slept in a bush. His hair is messy, and his pyjamas are rumpled.

Completely oblivious to the tension he just bulldozed his way through—at least on my part as Riot seems unfazed—he switches the kettle on and peers into the pans on the stove. “Somethin’ smells good.”

“Help yourself, kid,” Riot says, pointing with his fork. “There’s plenty to go around, and the bacon’s only slightly burnt.” He smirks at me as he says this, and my stomach somersaults.

“I don’t care,” Toby says. “Food’s food.”

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