Chapter 18 - Olivia

After dropping Zane off at his motel, I'm struggling with Byron's eight different locks when the door swings open, and he's standing there staring at me. He's shirtless, which isn't fair because it immediately makes my mouth go dry, even though I'm doing my best not to think about how much I like the soft curves of his pecs, how his shoulders flow into his back, his toned stomach and the knowledge that while he looks small, he can hold and carry me easily.

"You're back," he says, his voice completely flat, and I summon all my attitude while pushing past him, dropping my keys back into my purse.

"What a great observation," I mutter, chewing on my lip as I turn away from him, pretending to rummage for something in my purse. I can feel his presence behind me, can practically hear him breathing—feel his heartbeat like it's my own.

After talking to Zane today, I want to give Byron the benefit of the doubt. I want to be the person who's willing to be there for him while he works through it. But is he working through it? And is it worth it to sacrifice myself for his sake?

My body, my brain, the parts of me consumed by the mating bond and blood bond respond immediately, in unison: yes .

"Did you have a good time?" he asks, scrubbing his hand over the back of his head, which makes his hair go crazy, then fixing me with an intense, almost accusatory look.

"You probably know the answer to that, don't you?"

"What are you implying?"

"Tell me you weren't watching me on the cameras."

He stares at me for a moment, something in his jaw twitching.

"You, you've had all these kidnapping attempts, and the—"

"I was with Zane!"

"You don't even know him!" Byron snaps, his hands in his hair, looking like he's on his last nerve. "He's not—first of all, he's not had the same training as the rest of the team. Who knows if he's ever even come in contact with a vamp, let alone killed one. Besides, Zane himself could be part of the problem."

"Oh, what, you seriously don't even trust your own brother? It's not like he would abandon me—"

"You have no idea what he's capable of, Liv," Byron says, his face tight, like the slightest change in emotion could make him come apart. "No fucking idea."

"So, tell me!" I say, throwing my hands in the air, exasperated. "Tell me about it."

"What?"

"You want me to know about Zane? Then tell me all about him. You never tell me anything—I didn't even know you're from Detroit! And you expect me to just blindly believe you when you say your brother's a bad guy. At least he was willing to open up about things."

Byron's face immediately darkens.

"What did he tell you?"

For the first time, it occurred to me that Byron might see this as an invasion of his privacy. I think back to how Zane seemed in the bakery, how it seemed like he truly cared about his brother, just wanted me to know about the experiences that might influence his behavior.

"Nothing, just—"

" What ?"

"He told me about what happened to your parents," I say, finally, lifting my gaze to meet his. We stare at each other for a long moment, and I swallow the lump in my throat, thinking this is a good time to offer up my own vulnerability. Maybe if I show Byron the scary parts inside me, he'll show me his. "My parents are dead, too, you know."

"I…" Byron says, moving his hands around at his sides like he's suddenly unsure what to do with them. He sighs, heavily, then stuffs them into his pockets. "I'd figured as much, but I don't know the details."

"Amon killed them," I say, surprised at how steady my voice stays. I close my eyes, clear my throat, and refocus on Byron, seeing that his dark brown eyes are still trained on me. "When I made the choice to leave with Rosa—my guess is that he wanted to punish me, or influence other parents to keep a tighter hold on their kids, or maybe he was just feeling homicidal. With Amon, it never mattered. He just did whatever he wanted, exacted so many forms of cruelty, one after the other."

"What were they like?"

"You first," I say, holding his gaze. "Tit for tat."

"Tit for tat?" he asks, a smile slipping over his face. "What is this, a negotiation?"

"If it has to be," I say, voice tight. I look down at the ground, wringing my hands together. "Look, Byron, we're in quite the fucking mess right now, aren't we? With this blood-bonding shit, and—well, I know that you don't love me, but maybe that doesn't mean we have to hate each other. Maybe we could just…co-habitat."

My throat feels like a tender lump in my neck as I swallow, and distantly, I think of Veronica.

"That feeling in your throat?" she'd said, giggling at the Halloween party, dancing in the dress I gave her. I could feel Byron across the square, glaring daggers at us. He'd gotten me that dress for a date. But after you reject someone, you don't have jurisdiction over which clothes they choose to keep. "That feeling," she continued, "is your body protecting you. Opening your airway so you don't choke to death while you're crying."

"Gods," Rosa had said, putting her hand on Veronica's shoulder, "are you okay?"

Now, staring at Byron, I feel that lump in my throat, and almost wish it would just close up, let me choke for once. It's painful, to look at him and know he doesn't feel the same. Even the mating and blood bonds aren't enough to make him love me.

Sex is one thing. Wanting a future with someone is another.

"Co-habitat," he says, his eyes growing dark. I take a step back from him before the ever-present, low-level lust in the back of my mind can rear its ugly head. It's already paying attention now that we're in the room with him, and the last thing I need is to stop thinking with my head right now.

"Right," I say, "so, can you give me something ?"

"Yeah," he says, nodding and clenching his hands, releasing them, clenching them again. "I can. My mom. She was a dental hygienist."

I stare at him. For some reason, it feels like nothing and everything all at once. Maybe this is his way of showing that he can eventually open up to me. I'll take it.

"Okay," I say, nodding.

"Now you," he says, toeing at my foot with his.

"My mom was a piano teacher," I say, surprised at the tears that spring to my eyes. "She always wanted me to learn, said it was more lady-like than learning how to code."

Byron lets out a laugh, and for the first time tonight, I smile.

"Do you ever think it's weird? How alike are we?" he asks, taking another step toward me. His scent envelopes me, warm and inviting, willing me to move closer to him, to touch him, to give in and fall into his embrace.

I cough and slide into the hallway, not forgetting the way he pulled out of me the other night. Not the fact that he was being careful about pregnancy—but the fact that he didn't trust me. That he thought I was the kind of person who would trap another into parenthood.

The thought of a child with a father who never wanted to be a father breaks my heart. I know Byron would make a great dad, but forcing him into that role wouldn't be fair to anyone involved.

"What do you mean?" I ask, once my head has grown a bit less fuzzy, clearer from the distance between us.

"Like," he says, clearing his throat, "colored hair—at least, back when mine would—computer geeks, gamers—"

"—orphans," I add, which makes him crack a smile. I shrug, then clear my throat. "I don't know," I say, thinking about all those years I spent in the cottage with Rosa and Kaila. There was a lot of joy, but I was also lonelier than I've ever been. "I think sometimes there's solace in finding someone like you. Makes you feel less alone. That's the whole idea of a pack, right? A group of shifters who like each other, know each other, are like each other—all working together to keep each other safe. A partnership, or a family," I pause, watching something flicker over his face, "is like a tiny little pack."

"I did take sociology," he says, leaning on the wall and crossing his arms. I have to focus very carefully not to let my eyes wander to his bare biceps, which pop when he puts his arms like that. "I know about social circles."

It's a constant, thrumming need in my body to touch him. Choosing not to is like passing up food when you're starving. Like wearing a sweater in the summertime because you don't want anyone to see that you're sweating, which only makes you sweat more.

"Well," I say, eyes meeting his again. "Maybe you should talk to your brother. Focus on that circle."

"Yeah," he says, but something has hardened behind his eyes again. He steps back, putting even more space between the two of us. "Maybe."