Page 20 of Hollow Trace

“Honestly, after everything, I’m starting to question if I ever really knew you at all.”

The words sprang free a second before he realized the sheer weight of them. The effect they’d have on her. She flinched. Not a little, like before, when he’d probably been the only one who’d picked up on it. This was visceral — a noticeable jerk as she stepped back, inhaling. He closed his eyes, working out how to take it back without making it worse, when an alarm sounded through the room.

Scout jumped, looked down at her watch. “Motion detector outside the shed.”

Coulter stepped over, looking as awkward as Quinn felt. “It’s probably just that raccoon again. I’ll go check⁠—”

“The perimeter’s mine, Coulter. I’ll go.” Scout took a couple steps back. “Looks like we’re done here, anyway.”

She spun on her heels, marched out, back rigid, her wet hair slapping her shoulders. Quinn fisted his hands, then headed for the kitchen, grabbing the beer he’d left on the counter before sliding into a seat, taking a healthy pull. He thumbed the label, rerunning their discussion, trying to pinpoint the exact moment he’d fucked everything up, when Coulter slid onto the bar stool beside him, beer in hand, his back resting against the counter as he stared in the opposite direction.

Quinn cursed under his breath, shooting the other man a quick side-eye. “Whatever you have to say, I already know I went too far. Not that it’s anything new. That wasn’t our first fight, won’t be our last.” He took another pull. “I don’t know what it is, but Scout has this knack for bringing out the touch of asshole in me.”

“Neve’s the same.” Coulter chuckled. “There’s just something about sparring with her that makes everything else sharper.”

“Amen, brother.”

“But the thing about Scout is out of everyone here, she’s had the hardest time…” He paused as if searching for the right word. “Adapting to this new normal. And quite frankly, you’re the main reason for that.”

Quinn tipped his beer toward Coulter. “All she had to do was talk to me. Explain the situation. Give me a chance to be the man she needed me to be.”

Coulter nodded, taking his own sip. “I realize she’s five-foot-five inches of ball-busting bad-assery, but underneath all that gruff exterior, she’s scared.”

Quinn nearly spit his drink across the counter. “Scared of what? Breaking the rules? Because that’s definitely not the girl I know.”

“Of hearing your response to the situation.” Coulter took a swig, meeting Quinn’s gaze. “Because despite everything, there was always a fifty percent chance it didn’t go her way.”

Quinn stopped with the beer just touching his lips before looking down the hallway toward the sliding panel door. He didn’t know if there was another exit, didn’t care. He only needed one.

He took a drink, placed the half-empty bottle on the counter, then stood, cursing when his soaked clothes tugged against his skin.

Coulter slipped off the stool beside him. “You really do need to get out of those clothes. I’ve got something you can wear for now until Shepherd grabs you some new stuff.”

Quinn waved Coulter off. “Do me a favor and put a pin in that. No sense getting anything else wet because it’s still raining, right?” At Coulter’s guarded nod, he started walking. “And Scout really is crazy if she thinks this is even remotely over.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Scout was going to kill Quinn.

Slowly.

Painfully.

That, or she was going to break down — tell him she loved him, that she’d always loved him — beg for some semblance of forgiveness. Anything to erase the way he’d looked at her, all doe-eyed, color high on his cheeks. As if she’d planned it all along.

As if she hadn’t been suffering all these months, too.

He was angry. She understood. Hell, in his position, she’d be angry, as well. And it wasn’t as if he’d said anything she hadn’t already told herself.

Except that last part.

Out of everyone in her life, Quinn had always known her the best. Not just the parts she showed other people. The ugly, broken pieces she’d kept hidden. Thinking he was having doubts…

She closed her eyes, listening to the rain hammering the metal roof as frogs called out from deep in the forest behind the cabin. She’d circled the perimeter twice, then encouraged their resident raccoon to find another place to forage before standing in the one blind spot at the edge of the carport.

The forest stilled, the glow from the lantern she’d turned on barely lifting the shadows, when the hairs on the back of her neck prickled, a weight settling between her shoulder blades. She turned, Sig sweeping the open space between the main house and the outbuilding, when Quinn stopped twenty feet away, rain dripping off his hair and clothes, adding to the puddles beneath his boots.

He arched a brow, looking from her gun back to her. “Something I said?”