Page 45 of The Pawn
“No.” I draw a deep breath in. “Open it.”
“We don’t have to.”
“Open it, Cassian. Like you said, I’m going to make fear into my strength.” He doesn’t look convinced. “Open it. I want you to.”
He nods, twists the corkscrew into the cork and pulls. I hear the pop and instantly smell the wine even though I’m holding my breath.
It takes me a minute. Several minutes. I close my eyes and tell myself to breathe slowly.
“You’re safe,” Cassian says, still standing, still watching me.
I nod, slowly open my eyes. I hold out my empty glass grateful my hand isn’t shaking.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He pours. My stomach is tight. Usually by now, nausea has taken over. After he’s poured for me, he fills his own glass and sits down. “Together?” he asks.
“Together,” I say, and together, we take a sip and when the heavy red touches my lips and I swallow the smallest sip, I think maybe I can do this. I think about what Jet said. What Cassian said. And maybe I can do this.
But that little bit is enough, and I set my glass down.
“We need to bury my brother,” I say. We just need to do this. I need to get through it, get it done, for Michael, for myself.
“I’ll arrange it.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course.”
I pick up my fork and spoon and begin to twirl the pasta. I’m weirdly hungry. I feel like I haven’t had a proper meal in so long. We’re eating our first bite when I hear the front door open. Hear men’svoices.
Cassian wipes his mouth and stands. Footsteps head toward us, and I turn to watch Jet walking down the center aisle. He glances at me, but keeps his eyes on Cassian and when he steps into the light, I notice the bruise on his temple, the cut on his lip. He stops when he’s a few feet from the table and he and Cassian have some sort of silent showdown. I watch them. They’re something to watch, these two. I can’t help but glance at Cassian’s hand, the knuckles of his fist.
The air around us crackles. I’m holding my breath. I think we all are. There’s something between Jet and Cassian that I’ve noticed before. It’s always been there. Whatever it is has butterflies fluttering their wings in my belly.
“Sit,” Cassian says gruffly, breaking the spell.
I exhale. Jet seems to do the same.
Cassian walks toward the kitchen to return a moment later with a plate, utensils and a wine glass.
By then, Jet is seated across from me. Cassian is at the head of the table.
Jet nods his greeting to me.
“What happened to your face?” I ask.
“Met an unfriendly fist,” he says casually as Cassian makes him a plate.
I look up at Cassian and I know his was the unfriendly fist. Cassian must feel me looking at him, but he avoids my gaze.
“Any word on Malek?” Jet asks finally.
Cassian chews a mouthful of pasta and shakes his head. “Not yet. Coward’s vanished.” He takes another bite just as his phone rings. I recognize the ringtone. He digs it out of his pocket. This one isn’t the burner.
I meet his gaze when he glances at me. “I have to take this,” he says and with that, he’s gone, walking toward his study, speaking quietly.
