Page 161 of Toxic Temptation
I’m in love with Kovan Krayev.
I’m in love with a man who gets shot and acts like it’s no big deal. A man whose world is so violent that bullets are normal and blood is routine.
I know I’m strong. I’ve proven it over and over again.
But I’m not strong enough for this.
I’m not strong enough to love someone I could lose.
Not again.
56
VESPER
EIGHT DAYS LATER
“How is Luka?” I ask before I’ve even closed the car door properly.
Waylen adjusts his rearview mirror, avoiding my eyes. He’s wearing the burgundy sweater that Mom knitted for his thirtieth birthday. He always brings out the birthday gifts for family occasions.
You know, just to remind everyone he’s the good son.
And I’m the cold-hearted bitch.
“You literally FaceTimed him this morning,” Waylen reminds me, pulling away from the curb. “And you spent every waking moment with him yesterday. Pretty sure you know how he is.”
“He was congested last night.” I fidget with the zipper on my jacket. “I gave him those saline drops before bed. Did you make sure he used them?”
“Vesper, for the love of all that is good and holy—you sent me a novel-length text about the nose drops. Complete with diagrams. Of course I remembered.”
I ignore his sass. “And they helped?”
“They did. He slept through the night without coughing once.”
“Good.” I pull my jacket tighter even though the heater’s blasting. “That’s good.”
Waylen takes the scenic route toward Mom’s neighborhood. The long way. Which means he’s giving me time to psych myself up for this—my first visit home in six months.
“Kovan’s doing fine, too, by the way,” he adds.
My fingernails find a loose thread on my sleeve. “I didn’t ask about him.”
“You didn’t have to.” He drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “I’ve known you your entire life, remember? I can tell when you like someone. And I can definitely tell when you’re running scared.”
“I’m not running from anything,” I snap.
“It’s been eight days since the shooting at St. Raphael’s. You’ve seen him exactly once.”
I turn away from him and start picking at my cuticles. “I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve beenhidingis what you’ve been doing.”
I whip around to face him. “Can you stop psychoanalyzing me for five minutes? God.”
“Someone has to. You won’t do it yourself.” He slows for a yellow light that he could have easily made. “It’s pretty obvious to everyone, you know.”
My chest tightens. “What’s obvious?”
