Page 152 of Lost Trust

His jaw tightens.

“Among other things.”

I tell him everything. The twelve missed calls. The demanding texts. The accusations. The questions about where I was and where Ryder was. The threat to call the police.

By the time I finish, Royce is staring straight ahead, his expression hard. “That son of a bitch has some nerve.”

I let out a tired breath.

“He hasn’t bothered to call his kid in six months, but suddenly, he finds out you’re selling the condo, and he’s got questions?”

“It doesn’t surprise me. Honestly, I should’ve seen it coming.”

Royce shakes his head. “He doesn’t get to disappear whenever it’s convenient and then demand answers when something changes.”

“I know.” I take another drink.

He doesn’t really care. It’s all about control. Leaving was his choice. He made the decision. Selling and moving was my choice. I made the decision, and he doesn’t like that.

I pick at the label on my beer. “I can take his anger if it somehow lights a fire under him. If it makes him start calling Ryder more often, I’ll deal with it.”

“You think it will?”

I shake my head. “No.” The answer comes easy. “He might call tomorrow and maybe even a few times after that. But eventually, he’ll realize he can’t manipulate me with threats anymore, and he’ll fall right back into the same pattern.”

Royce doesn’t say anything. He just reaches over and takes my hand. His thumb brushes across my knuckles.

I rest my head on his shoulder.

The television murmurs quietly in the background, neither of us really watching it. His arm eventually settles around my shoulders, and I burrow deeper into his side, my cheek resting against his chest.

The warmth of him seeps into me.

My body is exhausted. My mind is even more so.

The screen blurs, and my eyelids become impossibly heavy. I blink and fight to keep them open.

The next thing I know, the bottle is gone from my hand.

“Come on, Rina.” His voice is low and warm.

I mumble something that doesn’t even sound like words.

Then, suddenly, I’m being lifted.

I instinctively curl against him, my arms finding their way around his neck.

“I got you,” he whispers into my hair.

I barely notice us moving down the hallway before I feel the soft dip of my mattress as he gently lowers me onto the bed and pulls the covers over me.

His fingers brush a strand of hair away from my face, and his lips touch my forehead. Soft. Warm.

The mattress shifts again as he stands.

I reach for him before I can think better of it, and my fingers close around his forearm. “Stay.”

He goes still. Then he looks down at me. “You sure?”