Page 101 of Wicked Scorn
“Consider it straightened. Now do us both a favor and leave her alone,” Jeremiah says, his tone final. “That’s the best thing you can do for your sister.”
The tension between them crackles. I stand there, caught in the crossfire of these two boneheads. Royce’s confession changes everything and nothing, all at once.
“Fine,” Royce finally says, stepping back. “I’ll leave. But I’ll be around. I just transferred to St. Charles.” There’s mirth in his tone that I don’t like one bit.
Jeremiah doesn’t reply, wrapping an arm around me protectively.
As Royce turns and walks away, the weight of the encounter settles over us like a dark cloud. For a moment, we stand in silence, the noise of the crowd fading into the background as we process what just happened.
“Are you okay?” Jeremiah asks, his voice gentle now, his protective stance softening.
“Yeah,” I whisper, leaning into him, finding solace in his embrace. “I think so.”
“Let’s get out of here,” he suggests, his eyes filled with concern.
We move through the crowd, the noise fading into a distant hum. My heart pounds in my chest, the uncertainty that lies ahead for the three of us weighing on me. I don’t know why my brother has transferred here, but I suspect it’s not because he has a sudden interest in getting a degree when professional boxing was always his goal. He wanted to be the next great and to see his name in lights everywhere. But with Jeremiah’s arm around me, I feel a flicker of hope. Whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.
“Blackwood!” Royce’s voice calls out behind us, and I realize that he’s turned back around to us. His tone is raw, stripped of its usual confidence.
“Oakley needs you,” Royce admits, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes me shiver. “I can see that now. It doesn’t mean I like what happened, but I get it.”
Jeremiah’s grip on me tightens, as if he can shield me from the weight of Royce’s words. I glance up at him, seeing the conflict tearing him apart. But there’s an understanding there, a reluctant acceptance.
“I’ll keep her safe. From everyone. Even you,” Jeremiah begins, his voice low and dangerous.
“I know,” Royce replies, stepping closer.
“You have no idea what she went through because you left her. BecauseIleft her,” Jeremiah snaps, his muscles coiled and ready to snap.
“You’re right,” Royce says, his voice softening. He raises hishand, rough and scarred, extending it toward Jeremiah. “Truce, for her sake?”
Time seems to freeze as Jeremiah stares at Royce’s outstretched hand. He looks at his hand as if it’s a viper poised to strike. Two former best friends, to enemies, to acquaintances as best. How freaking tragic.
“Fine,” Jeremiah mutters, releasing his hold on me just enough to free one hand. He takes Royce’s hand, their grips firm but wary. “But this doesn’t mean you have any right to call her, text her, or be near her. I’m on the edge, Royce.”
“Understood,” Royce replies, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“Just remember,” Jeremiah warns, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “You, of all people, know what the fuck I’m capable of. Don’t give me a reason.”
“Noted,” Royce says simply, letting go of Jeremiah’s hand. The tension between them simmers, an uneasy understanding forged.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say, my voice trembling. The need to escape is overwhelming.
“Yeah,” Jeremiah agrees, his arm wrapping around me once more. As we turn to leave, I catch a glimpse of Royce’s face—haunted, regretful, yet determined. I’ll find out where he’s been and why he was gone for so long, but I know it won’t be right now. As much time as I’ve spent hating the fact that he left the way he did, I do believe him about Mr. Blackwood. I can tell that Jeremiah does, too.
I want to know what happened, how he got that scar and why he looks so exhausted, but I know it’s not my place anymore to ask those kinds of questions.
That’s his story to tell when he’s ready.
Chapter 40
Jeremiah
Ipush open the kitchen door, and the scent of garlic and rosemary hits me like an olfactory overload. Oakley’s there, apron-clad, hips swaying to some soft tune only she can hear, her small feet tucked into those damn cute shoes that do funny things to my heart rate.
“Hey,” I offer, leaning against the doorframe, trying to keep my voice casual despite the sudden tightness in my chest.
She glances over her shoulder, a smile playing on her lips, “Keep your distance, pretty boy. Wouldn’t want you tainting this masterpiece with your dirty football grip.”
