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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.”
