“Sit down,” I snapped.
Nash obeyed on autopilot, his gaze distant as he scanned the yard through the window.
Ranger hovered by the door, mutiny still thick in his black stare.
“Fine.” I pointed to the windows. “Stand there like a prick. I don’t give a shit, but shut the goddamn blinds.”
Ranger heaved a sigh an O’Brian would’ve been proud of and closed the blinds, cutting Nash off from the outside world.
Nash glowered, his kind face creased in ways that didn’t suit him, his right eye half closed with a blooming shiner, knuckles split on both hands. “The fuck are you doing?”
“What I’m told.” Ranger wrapped an arm around himself and dropped into the nearest chair. “Gonna be here all fucking day otherwise.”
I fired him a sharp look. “What makes you think I won’t keep you all day anyway?”
Ranger shifted, discomfort clouding his belligerence. “Nowt that interesting about me.”
“You’re not interesting,” I agreed. “But I’ve got all the time in the world to understand why you two think it’s a good idea to half-kill each other when we need every soldier we have on the road.”
“I’m not half dead,” Ranger countered. “Can I smoke?”
“No,” I said in the same moment Nash clicked back into the room and saidyes.
Ranger glanced between us, the hand reaching for his cigarettes frozen in time.
Then his gaze settled on me and he let it drop.
Good boy.I got up and moved to the tiny kitchen. Over the summer, Nash had installed an instant boiling water tap to dispense with the kettle no one ever found the time to descale and clean. Then my sweet man had panicked and made it so childproof that no one knew how to use it.
No one except me.
I made coffee from my secret stash of decaf—white for Ranger, black for Nash—and threw sausages into a frying pan.
The sizzle seemed unnaturally loud. I turned the heat down and chanced a peek at the table.
Nash still scowled at the blocked windows. Ranger had tipped his head back, running a hand over his tender ribs while he glared at the ceiling.
I returned to the table and placed a mug of deceit in front of him.
Thunked one down in front of Nash, startling him out of his daze.
“Shh.” I coiled an arm around his neck, drawing him close. “Breathe.”
I gave him a moment to hide against my chest, massaging the back of his neck.
He hummed, but the low sound was drowning in pain I couldn’t fix. Not without Locke, and my treacherous heart tore me away from him.
I went back to the kitchen and made them breakfast, trusting they’d stay put in my absence.
They did.
I set plates in front of them. “Eat. Then maybe we can blame this madness on hypoglycaemia.”
“I ate on the road.” Nash finally looked me in the eye. “Folk made me.”
“Good for Folk. Eatmorethen.”
Of the two of us, stubborn was a moniker I’d claimed all to myself. But Nash was messy right now. Fractured and frayed.