Page 172 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“You are an atrocious liar.”

Fuck.

I force a breathy, unconvincing laugh. “You’re concussed.”

“And you are doing something stupid.”

“Again, concussed.”

“Ryan.” The way he says my name—soft and stripped bare—nearly wrecks me. All the anger is gone from his voice.

Only fear remains.

I look at him then, really look—the tremble in his jaw, the rapid pulse beating at his throat, the way he’s holding himself so still against the pain.

Quietly, I say, “You told me you loved me.”

His expression fractures completely.

Camille swallows hard. “Yes.”

“And then you left.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“By dying?”

“If necessary.”

Real fury—hot and bright—flares behind my ribs.

Useful fury.

I lean in closer, then growl, “You are such a fucking asshole.”

Henri gives an amused chuckle behind me. Camille does not.

“I know,” he murmurs brokenly.

“No, I don’t think you do.”

“I think this conversation would be more productive if we were not being held at gunpoint.”

“Maybe.”

I straighten up and turn away from him.

“Ryan,” he begs.

Henri waits several feet away, too far. I walk toward him.

His expression brightens with paternal approval. “Finished?” he asks.

“Not really.”

“No?”

“I think I’m going to be pissed at him for another decade.”