Chapter 12

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Be careful who you trust.

Briar

Rowan is green. Not an outright green, to be sure. The shade just barely tinges his cheeks. With the overlay of his pale skin, he looks like a poor Victorian child dying of dysentery, and I have to give him credit for making it this far. He survived five roller coasters and didn't break a sweat on the Kamikaze or the drop tower.

Alas. A tea party was too much for the manly man.

Taking deep breaths, Rowan braces himself against a pole—which is strategically placed near a large trash can—and whispers, "I hate you."

I bite my bottom lip. "I promise never to tell your enemies that your weakness is teacup rides."

His eyes close, briefly, painfully. "They're for children, aren't they? Why are they allowed to spin so much?"

"For maximum enjoyment."

He groans, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand. "Never again."

I grin. "Are you ready for lunch?"

Tilting his head back, he glowers down his nose at me and grumbles, "The last thing I want to do right now is eat, but if lunch means I can sit in an air conditioned space and pretend this entire morning didn't happen, yes."

"I've no control over your delusions. Did you scour the spreadsheet I made for you and determine an acceptable place to get food?"

"I found several with equally disastrous menus. But which is closest…" Taking a fortifying breath, he reaches into his pocket and unfolds his map. While searching the colorful streets, he tempers his breathing. A moment passes. Then another.

Something sparks in his gaze, and he jerks his attention upright. "Briar. How long have we been here?"

I don't flinch. "Four hours."

His eye twitches, and both the green and red hues drain from his skin. Like reverse Christmas. "Four hours? What about our contact?"

I beam. "Time flies when you're having a good time."

His scowl implies that he is having a bad time. The worst time. On a scale of one to ten—where ten is a fantastic time and one is the kind of time you have after spilling coffee on your boss when you're late to a meeting—his expression indicates a vote of negative two hundred. "Briar," he states, gravelly and deep, "is there a contact?"

"Of course."

His eyes narrow. "Where are they?"

"Late."

Suddenly, one-word answers aren't as appealing to him as they were before. He glares at a little family ready to tackle the infamous teacups, grabs my hand, and tugs me into the shadows between a gift shop and a restaurant. We should eat at the restaurant. It's themed after the teacup ride, and according to my research, it has tiny cakes and sandwiches. The only cups are bitty and porcelain, and I must see Rowan holding one daintily to his lips.

It is important for my mental health.

Before I can broach the possibility, however, Rowan cages me in against the brick wall. His body cuts off all access to sunlight, and, yeah, this isn't bad for my mental health, either.

"How do you expect me to trust you when you're like this?" he murmurs.

I arch a brow. "What do you think trust is, pet? You don't trust someone if everything always goes exactly how you expect. Trust is staring at perfectly good reasons for doubt and ignoring them."

"Briar." His tone is so heavy and dark it could kill a mongoose. "That's called idiocy."

"Only when whoever you put your trust in fails repeatedly to live up to it." Resting my head against the brick, I meet his steely eyes. "It's not called a leap of faith for nothing, baby. You need to jump a few times to find out where you land."

"You and your motivational speeches." His fingers close in, gripping the base of my jaw, taking my pulse hostage.

Tingles start low in my chest, bubbling up like carbonated water.

He utters a curse as his attention drops to my parted lips. "Where are we meeting this supposed contact? We're going to sit and wait for them until they show."

"That's boring."

His fingers flex, then forcibly soften. His drags his hand off me and shoves it in his pocket. "I don't care."

"If we sit in the sunlight, you'll burn."

His eyes roll skyward, likely imploring a kind deity to smite him. "We'll sit in the shade."

My nose scrunches.

"This isn't a game, Briar. This is life or death. For us. For a lot of people. Would it kill you to take things seriously?"

I cross my arms. "Yes. Frankly, I don't know how you've survived this long taking everything seriously. It looks exhausting."

"Does it?" he grates.

"Yes."

"Well, it is." Heaving a sigh, he settles against the wall beside me, stretches his shoulders as far back as he can against the brick. "But what else am I supposed to do, princess? People are hurting. Every day. And I'm in a position that can make something better for them. How will I sleep at night if I don't take that seriously?" Pulling his hand from his pocket, he smooths it down his face. "I understand that the way you run things creates safety in the most unlikely of places, but I am not used to your methods. Is it too much to ask that you be more direct with your schemes?"

"Thief of joy."

"What?" he mutters.

I point at him. "Burglar of fun."

Rowan's expression wanes as his head cocks my direction. Exhaustion truly drowns his dark eyes.

"Swindler of merriment."

"Right, yes. Foolish of me to request something you're clearly incapable of."

Gasping, I lay an offended hand to my chest. "I am incapable of nothing."

"Prove it."

"Sadly, your reverse psychology has no power here. I do what I want, when I want, and I have nothing to prove to anyone. Ever."

"Then I'm done with this. I don't have time to waste playing games with you."

"You don't have time to waste on anyone, Rowan. But who says my games are a waste of time?" I direct a finger past us, out of the alley, toward a man. And a child.

The plastic smile on both their faces chills me to the bone, and no one would see the abject fear in the little girl's eyes unless they knew to look for it. Even then, most people don't like to assume horrible things. They create ideas of safety around themselves, to protect their own minds.

Bad things are supposed to look dreadful. Like a train wreck or a car crash. Awful shades and neon lights are meant to paint warning labels across horrors. Bad things aren't supposed to be as discreet as a too-tight smile.

But that's reality.

In reality, the worst crimes happen in plain sight.

Rowan's gaze shifts to follow my finger, and breath freezes in his chest. "That's—"

"One of Granger's subordinates. Acting explicitly against your rules." Pushing off the wall, I smooth my hands down my skirt. "It takes money to organize a coup. And we both know what makes the easiest money."

Rowan's large form hardens, and he straightens, imposing. "You're—" A curse leaves him. "—kidding me."

The man and the child turn out of sight, so Rowan marches.

I follow, avoiding passersby as I fight to stay on his heels.

He pulls out a flip phone, dials, and lifts it to his ear. Hard language speckles his statements to either Corbin or Aster—I can't be sure—as he instructs them to round up the refuse.

And put Granger…in the basement.