“Why not? Because she’s notlike me?”
“No, because she doesn’t have to be. If her boyfriend needs cutting into a thousand pieces, I’ll do it myself.”
Orla’s eyes flashed as my voice thundered in the dark. She opened her mouth to decapitate me, but Nash stepped between us, arms spread, eyes wide with genuine bemusement.Naked, as if this whole clusterfuck could be more ridiculous.
“Enough. Both of you. The fuck is going on?”
Orla planted her hands on her hips. “Locke wants to murder people for existing?—”
“I never said I wanted to kill anyone. Just that this mope is twenty-five and I don’t fuckin’ like it.”
“He’s twenty-five?” Aggression threatened Nash’s calm gaze. “Who the hell is he?”
“JesusChrist,not you too.” Orla looked around for something to throw. I didn’t entirely blame her. Some distant part of me got her point. But I needed the validation of Nash’s reaction. I welcomed it, and Alexei’s prophecy that Decoy was the only brother who could help me made more sense than ever.
I filled Nash in.
He eyed the knife.
Orla took it away and shoved it back in the drawer. Loudly, the commotion drawing a sleepy-eyed Rubi to throw open the door and glare into the room.
“What in the name of all dragons is going on in here—holy Khaleesi, Nashie, put your love noodle away.”
Nash grabbed some clothes. “How about you goddamn knock?”
“How aboutyoudon’t make a riotous racket that makes me think you’re all being slaughtered?”
As he spoke, River popped up behind him. “Why’s everyone fucking shouting?”
“Willow has a boyfriend,” Nash supplied, covering his junk. “And he’s old.”
River pursed his lips and made to slink away.
“Don’t you dare,” Orla snapped. “This is your fucking fault.”
“How’s it my fault?”
“Get in here.”
River ducked around Rubi. “What?”
Orla nailed him with a glare that he returned with immediate O’Brian attitude. “Youtook this to Alexei.”
“And?” River widened his stance. “Locke wasn’t here.”
“I’mhere?—”
“You have enough to worry about.”
“Says who?” Orla shouted. “Who made you fucking god?”
“Whoa.” Rubi stepped in front of River, spreading his hands. “Don’t get all riled up. It’s not good for the baby.”
“Do not”—Orla pointed a long black nail in his face, their last hurrah before she cut them short for the foreseeable future—“fucking tell me what’s good for my babies.”
Babies.
Plural.