Page 12 of Cross’s Reckoning

"Fuck you."

Something flashes in his eyes. "I don't fucking hate you, Lola."

"Could've fooled me."

"I hated some of the shit you defended."

"My father."

"Sometimes. Perdition more often."

"The club colors you happily wore for ten years?"

"I never said I was better than anyone else in it."

"No. You just acted like you were better than me."

His jaw tightens. "I was harder on you because you're smart."

For a moment, I genuinely have nothing.

Cross steps closer. "You saw more than half the patched men did. You knew when something wasn't right, then you'd find a reason it was different because Cyrus was the one doing it."

"So now insulting me is a compliment?"

"No. I'm telling you why it pissed me off. I expected more because I knew you were capable of more."

"You arrogant bastard."

"Probably true."

"You don't get to decide what I should've believed."

"No. I don't."

The lack of argument takes some of the force out of mine. I've spent years certain Cross looked down on me. Apparently I've built a lot of perfectly good hatred around something that may never have been true.

I turn away. "This was a mistake."

His hand closes around my upper arm and the contact stops me faster than the grip does. Cross has touched me before in all the insignificant ways people touch when they've known each other for years. Passing something across a table. Brushing past in a crowded room. This isn't accidental, and every nerve in my body knows the difference.

"Let go."

His hand disappears immediately and I look at him. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Act like touching me is going to set off a fucking bomb."

Something changes in his face. Finally. Something real.

"Because it probably would have."

"What does that mean?"

He gives me a look. "You really don't know?"

"If I knew, I wouldn't be asking."