Royce’s body straightens, his hands falling to his sides as he eyes me.

My pulse begins to pound heavily against my temples and I try to calm myself, to slow the blood rushing fiercely through my body, but I can’t focus on anything other than the unknown.

“Where is he?!” I scream, the pressure in my head doubling.

Shit, I squeeze my eyes shut, and when they open again Royce’s face is a little fuzzy, my vision threatening to abandon me, but I can still see. And Royce’s frown, it’s taken an entirely new form.

“Royce.” Raven steps forward, but she has a hard time looking away from the car, and her hands fall to her baby bump.

Royce licks his lips, not bothering to turn toward the others. “Go. We’ll catch the fucker tonight.”

Oh my god, I found out their secret and now he’s going to kill me!

Micah steps closer. “Brie—”

“Don’t make me chop your fuckin’ junk off, Micah.” Royce cuts him a glance, one that has Micah dropping his eyes and jogging away, Andre on his heels.

His family goes next.

It’s just us now.

“Wanna talk, open the door,” he says.

“Why, so you can add my blood to this, no need for a cleanup crew if it’s all mixed in the last mess, right?”

“Take that as a no.” He turns and walks away.

I lean forward, grabbing on to the seat to keep my eyes on him.

Royce pops the trunk to the black vehicle closest to him, and within seconds, he’s coming back, a bat hanging from his hand.

He swings it in a circle, tipping his head at me, and my heart races as I clench the leather as tight as I can.

“Your call, little Bishop. How we doin’ this?”

I feel along the edge of the seat, my fingers finding something cool and hard, and I stretch the slightest bit to wrap my palm around it. “The glass will fly at me.”

“I know.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“You sure?” He brings the bat down for a hard knock against the hood and I jump—I can only see shades of him now, black and whites, and swift movements. “I’m thinkin’ no, since you feel the need to lock yourself in there. Weak move, by the way. A smart girl would have run, but a brave one would have grabbed the crowbar you’re reaching for at your feet”—shit — “and took it to the windows of the house while we were still inside.”

“I’m not weak.”

“Then ask me.”

Ask him?

Okay, fine.

“Did you hurt my brother?”

“Nah.” He grins as if this is some sick joke. “My brothers wouldn’t let me.”

“Wait, what? What do you mean?”

“Open the door.”

“Why should I believe you?”

I trail his shadow around the side of the car and he crouches down to bring us eye level.

I blink several times, taking a deep breath and when I open my eyes his are right there.

He glares. “You shouldn’t.”

I really shouldn’t.

It would be naïve to think I could, to believe I know him, if even just a little bit, when he’s so good at hiding.

The world around him sees what he wants them to, but I can’t help but think I see more.

The change in his eyes, the thought behind them.

It’s hard to say for sure, but something tells me he might be aware of it.

If he is, he hates it, and if he is that would make me dangerous.

All the more reason to be rid of me, isn’t it?

He’s right, I shouldn’t believe him.

I unlock it anyway.

Royce wastes no time tearing it open and dipping inside with angry, jerky movements, but it’s with gentle hands and a soft grip that he scoops my body into his arms, and lifts me out.

Chapter 21

Brielle

I’m far from broken and bruised, but when Royce carries and sets me on the edge of the still open trunk of the SUV he pulled the bat from, I don’t argue.

He tosses the wooden weapon to the side, quickly tearing out a first aid kit.

I keep my mouth shut as he does this, focusing on getting my heart rate down so the pressure in my head will settle and leave my sight alone.

His frown darts up to mine, and he dares to glare, but his eyes don’t match his touch.

His hands are slow and soft as far as grip goes, but from the pads of his fingers to the base of his palm is textured evidence of his years of basketball, and more, a calm roughness from hard work put in.

The carefulness in which he wraps his hand around the back of my calves, twisting and turning to inspect the tiny little cuts is unexpected. It’s as if he’s almost cautious, afraid to push the little shards of glass in deeper, maybe?

I can’t imagine he’s ever put his hands on anyone with restraint, be it for pain or pleasure.

Royce is far from controlled, but when he touches you... it’s with purpose.

To test or tease, to scare or scar, want or warn.

From what I’ve gathered in the time we’ve spent together, it’s understanding the intention that can be tricky.

He gives nothing freely, but if you look close enough, it’s there, hidden under thick lashes and deep, dark eyes.

Eyes that lift to meet mine.

Not five seconds later a sharp sting has me jumping, and when he looks down, I do too.

A teeny-tiny, thin piece of glass sits between his fingertips, and he bends, finding another.

He looks up and I nod, smashing my lips together as he pulls it out as well.

As he plucks out the third, he asks, “Why do you do that with your eyes?”

I tense, and his eyes pop to mine. “Do what?”

“Blink like crazy, squeeze them closed, pat on your eyelids like you did when I found you outside at your aunt’s?”

He notices?

I look down, twitching when he goes for another shard of glass. “My vision...” How much do I share? “It gets foggy sometimes, doubles, but it always comes back.” For now, until the nerves give completely, and all that’s left is darkness.

His features harden as he stares at the cuts on my legs, and I know he wants to ask more, but he changes the subject. “How often do you and Bishop talk?”

I sigh. “We used to talk almost every other day at the least, but the last few months, it’s been a lot less.”

“Has he said why?”

“No.” I hate how my voice lowers.

“What did he say the last time you spoke?”

“That’s none of your business.”

He frowns. “You want to fuckin’ talk or not?”

I try to jerk my leg from his hold, but his grip tightens, holding me there.

It takes a second of neither of us giving in for him to finally scoff and get back to fixing me up.

“When did he wreck his car?”

Royce hesitates and then says, “Months ago.”

“Months ago. Wow.” While the sting in my chest is real, I don’t show it, but I couldn’t hide the bitterness that seeps into my next words if I tried. “Must be Brayshaw related.”

His eyes slice to mine. “Don’t act like you don’t know more than you should.”

“Don’t insinuate my brother is the reason behind that. He’s not.”