Page 20 of Allegiant

Or it is for Dalton, I assume. He might not be aware of his own feelings for Jackson, but some of us are.

If this knowledge gives me a little longer to figure out the mystery that is Rowan, then yeah, I’ll manipulate the fuck out of it.

A muscle works in Dalton’s jaw. “Fine. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t be able to do it.”

Wyatt is staring at Dalton while Matthias whispers in his ear. I hope my brother is prepared to support his husband, because this Dalton and Jackson situation has “nuclear bomb” written all over it. The only question is when it’s going to explode. Sure, there’s an age gap, but it’s not huge. Wylder and Neo have a similar age difference, and no one batted an eye at them. Jackson’s well into adulthood now.

Even if Dalton doesn’t want to acknowledge that little fact.

I meet Wylder’s eyes. We might be taking more of the workload off him, but he’s still the head of The Firm. It’s him I need to win over. “Please, Wylder. I just need fucking time.”

Wylder’s eyelid twitches, but he nods. “I’ll give you a week. In that time, we’ll go over the evidence and make sure the case is watertight. If something is amiss and we got this wrong, we need to reevaluate our entire process.”

“Thank you.” I sag back in my chair.

“But we are never wrong. So when we can prove it’s him, he needs to die,” Wylder adds ominously. “And if you can’t do it, then one of us will.”

6

ROWAN

When I’m not spending my days at the dance studio and when I’m not at home trying to wrangle my shoes from my dog’s mouth, I find myself in my kitchen, baking. And when I’ve baked myself out of existence and ingredients, I find myself at a nearby apartment, making myself useful.

An atonement, if you will.

It takes my neighbor forever to answer the door, but that’s normal. He doesn’t like visitors. Even put up a sign that reads, No Solicitation Allowed, and then added my name in his sloppy handwriting underneath.

I ignore it like I always do. He might hate me, but he keeps opening the door.

I’m pretty sure it’s just my baking he likes.

Even so, he likes to pretend it’s not his thing. Doesn’t stop him from devouring whole plates of pie without even the need for a fork.

“What do you want?” Larry asks with his East Coast accent, his mouth turned down into a frown. His usual thin cardigan hangs loose around him. There’s a new hole in the right sleeve. I’ll have to swipe it when he’s not looking to mend it. God knows how often I’ve patched the fucking thing at this point, but Larry’s never going to give it up. “And where’s Nugget?”

“I left him at home. He’s been a menace. Ate another TV remote and one of my socks. And when I didn’t give him a cookie, he peed on my rug. Hasn’t stopped jumping up and down off the sofas either, so I put him in his crate to think about his bad decisions.”

“Thought you got him some of those fancy ramps?”

“I did, but he doesn’t use them.” I roll my eyes. “He just ignores them and leaps onto the furniture instead. It’s almost like he doesn’t give a shit about future back problems.”

“He’s a puppy; doesn’t know any better.”

“He’s two,” I say in exasperation. Which, okay, could still be considered as a puppy, but I think this is just Nugget. He’s a demon. “Besides, he’s sleeping now. He will be totally fine while I check up on you for an hour.”

Larry’s frown lines deepen. “Don’t want you here without him.”

“Stop being a grouch,” I say as I breeze past him into the apartment that is the mirror to mine. “I know you like my company even without Nugget.”

“Not true.”

He grunts, his cane stomping on the floor like a child throwing a tantrum.

“I can’t hear you when you act that way. Plus, you like my brownies, so put a smile on that grouchy, handsome face,” I say with a grin.

Larry rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath. His gray hair is askew like normal. I eye the orange stain smeared on his once-white shirt under his cardigan. I’ll make sure I get a load of laundry going for him before I leave.

“I don’t like your fucking brownies,” he grumbles as I saunter into the kitchen and set the plate down on the counter. He always says he hates them, but the plate is empty when I return, and there are crumbs on his shirt from when he inhaled them in private.