Page 17 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

“Nope.” I snag the keys from her hand, unlock her door. “Come on inside. You’re hungry.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“You’re grumpier than usual.” I push the door wide.

“Grump— I’m not a grumpy person, Thorn!” She glares as she walks inside. “People think I’m a delight.”

“You are.” I follow her in. “Just not with me.”

“Just not—” She gapes at me.

I take advantage of the pause in her words to close and lock her door. But I freeze before I turn back. Then frown at the heavy wooden chair beside it, a sinking sensation twisting my insides.

“I’m hungry too,” I manage to say, forcing my feet to rotate.

Knowing—or maybe hoping—that she won’t be able to resist feeding me.

Taking care of people seems to be in her blood.

“I made you dinner,” she says woodenly.

“Brooks and Briar were too busy making love eyes at each other to notice me slipping out.”

Her mouth tips up at the edges.

But only for a second.

“I thought you and Brooks needed to talk about the Lyons.”

That sick feeling grows. “We did.”

Her brows lift in question.

And I want to answer her unspoken query, want to explain the dangers, make sure she understands the stakes.

But to tell her all of that would require me to?—

“Fine,” she snaps, marching across the tiny space and bustling between her stove and fridge.

Victory pulses through me and I do my best to not fuck up the small win, moving carefully after her and leaving plenty of distance between us.

She pulls out a container, slaps it on the counter. “I’ll feed you, but only if you tell me about the Lyons.”

The victory fades. The sick feeling grows.

Especially when she locks those blue eyes on mine.

Fuck they’re beautiful. She’s beautiful.

Even when she makes a prompting motion with her hand.

“There’s not much to tell,” I hedge.

A snort.

And she’s right to call me on my bullshit.

Because there’s so fucking much to tell.