Page 52 of Tested
Chapter Sixteen
David
Connor leaves right before the symphony of the damned – or whatever Tray’s listening to – finally ends, almost as if he’s afraid to face Trajan.Whatever. I kind of want to strangle him, so it’s probably for the best.
I’m sprawled on the leather couch, counting tiny sparks of light in the inky blankness of the ocean. Boats…or mermaids. I’m not sure and I don’t really care. Pouty David is pouty.
“What’s that smell?” Trajan’s standing in the doorway, scruffier than normal but upright, which I very much appreciate.
“Did you see the flowers?”
“What?”
“The lilies. Someone sent you a bouquet of white lilies. I”—oops—“read the card. The only signature was a fancy letter J.”
Trajan stills, his cheeks turning an unnatural pale color and his eyes going dark. His snarl is full of fang. “Show me,” he hisses.
His shift to full vampire has my wolf baring its teeth. I jump up, ready to run, both relieved that my wolf showed up and freaked out because the last time I saw Trajan lose his shit like this, he’d tried to drain Connor.
And the only way out of the room is past him. “They’re in the dining room.” I point in the general direction but don’t move until he does.
The closer we get to the funeral arrangement, the more obnoxious the cloying and unpleasant sweetness becomes. Trajan pulls up in the doorway, so I slide past him into the dining room and pluck the card off its little stand. I hold the card out to him, but his attention is wholly on the lilies.
After an awkward moment, I toss the card onto the table. “It says he hopes you’re feeling better and to remember what he told you.”
Trajan doesn’t respond, doesn’t move.
“What’d he tell you, Tray?”
I might as well have been a fly on the wall.
“Did Connor say when he’d be back?”
I shrug, because I don’t want to accidentally say something that I’ll live to regret.
Palms together as if he’s praying, Trajan presses his fingertips to his lips. There’s something going on in his head but—
He spins and slams a fist into the wall.
I jump about three feet in the air and come down wishing he weren’t blocking the room’s only doorway. He stands there, fist embedded in the sheetrock. I can’t see his face, but instinct tells me to keep very, very still.
It takes about three minutes for me to start feeling ridiculous. “Um, Tray?”
He doesn’t move.
“Trajan? Are you okay, dude?”
“Go.” He sounds like he’s trapped in a sepulcher.
Part of me thinks going is a most excellent idea. Another part –goddamn alpha tendencies– sees a pack member who’s hurting. I stay put, wondering whether my chance of survival would be better if I were on four paws.
Our confrontation lasts another couple minutes, until Trajan sighs, head tipped back, and shakes out his hand. I allow myself a slow breath. “You want to talk about it?”
His shoulders relax. “Nah,” he says, giving me the least-convincing denial ever. He’s flexing the fingers of his injured hand, and while there’s no blood, his knuckles look pretty swollen.
“Are you…does it”—I take a tentative step in his direction, reaching for his hand—“did you break something?”
He snorts. “Doesn’t matter. It’ll heal.”
