Page 25 of The Blood Witch
“Lying in wait for the perfect opportunity is more like it,” he retorts, a hint of teasing in his voice.
I shoot him an unamused look. “That just shows how well you know me; I wait for no man.”
We stare at each other for a moment, awkward silence seeping into the cracks and fractures between us. Tad’s annoying warning sounds off in my head, and I do my best to ignore it. Rogan and I haven’t known each other long, but despite how we met and what we’ve been up against, we’ve never had this stilted, uneasy tension between us. Not like there is now.
“Why are you really up this late?” he presses, threading the towel between his fingers.
I watch him as he fidgets, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was nervous. I debate feeding him some bullshit and then shutting myself back in my room, but the idea of being alone again with nothing but foreboding and worry for company ties my stomach in knots.
Rogan sighs and throws the towel on the counter. I see a hint of the Rogan I’m used to dealing with. The cocky, run headfirst into everything version, instead of this quiet, uncertain, sullen person who’s been skulking around lately.
“I had a nightmare,” I admit after a quick debate about whether he can use any of this against me somehow in the future. “I think all this craziness is finally catching up with me,” I add, gesturing to everything around us. The rest of the kitchen and living room is bathed in either shadows or moonlight, the recessed fixture above the sink barely illuminating the two of us.
“It’s a lot,” Rogan agrees, leaning back against the counter as he nods and crosses his arms over his chest.
“What have you been doing the past couple of days? I haven’t seen you,” I ask, reaching for something else to make this weirdness between us disappear just a little longer.
“You’ve been looking?” he solicits with a raised brow, and I huff out a small laugh and roll my eyes.
“No, but one grows accustomed to the temperature dropping every time a certain frigid asshole walks in the room. When it doesn’t happen, one takes notice.”
“Does one?” he taunts with a small smile.
“One does,” I reply, sounding like a bad impression of that assassin dude fromGame of Thrones.
Rogan releases a deep exasperated breath, showing the fatigue and frustration that’s just under the surface of his playful mien. “I’ve been looking for information. Seeing if there are any other recorded prophecies that might serve as a key to the one your grandmother had. Other than that, I’ve been meeting with people who owe me favors, hoping they might have heard something or at least will keep their eyes and ears open for anything that could give us a break.”
He pauses and rubs his face with one hand. I study his movements and wonder who he talks to? Who does he have to unload all of his worries and stress on? There’s no doubt that he’d do anything for his brother and that they’re close, but the protective way Rogan talks about Elon, I doubt he lays any unnecessary worries at his brother’s feet. There’s Marx, but again I get the impression that there’s a wall there, that the catalyst for so much of their communication lately is this case and not a deep-rooted friendship.
“I’ve also had to sit down with some of my mother’s upper council.” The words out of Rogan’s mouth are like a slap. I’m instantly pulled from my sympathetic musings and shoved right back into the stark reality of our situation.
“Why would you do that?” I demand, looking around to ensure no one is eavesdropping.
“It’s how I got access to this,” he tells me, circling his finger to indicate the Order building we’re standing in. “I promised I’d cooperate to the best of my ability, if they granted unfettered access to their information and resources here.”
I stare at him completely dumbfounded. He was willing to be cast out, to be renounced, hunted, and tortured to keep his secrets from falling into the wrong hands. Now, just like that, everything’s changed? I know he said he’d do whatever it took to find Elon, but this...potentially giving shitty people the key to immortality—or at least access to surviving deathonce—it’s too much. His parents and their council could be the ones behind all of this, in which case Rogan is just handing over exactly what they want. I get his intense level of devotion and responsibility toward Elon, but he has to see that some costs are too high.
“Rogan, you can’t do that,” I whisper, shocked.
Guilt bleeds into his gaze, and he drops his eyes from mine. “I’m being careful.”
I give an indignant snort. “You said you and Elon barely made it out of this place. That you don’t even know the extent or limitations of what happened to you. You’re risking too much,” I plead, but I can already see him starting to shut down and shut me out.
“Rogan, look at me,” I snap, and his green eyes flick up to mine, a flame of determination building in his hardening stare.
I feel the wall come up between us, and it’s painfully obvious that anything I’m about to say is going to be a waste of breath. He’s not going to hear me. He never has. He does whatever he wants, consequences be damned, and I curse the gods or fate or whatever the hell is out there that they gave someone like Rogan Kendrick such immense power. He doesn’t care who he hands it off to, or how it might be corrupted. All he sees is what he wants, and he’ll do anything to get it. Why am I even wasting my time thinking that what I have to say or my opinions on the matter will make a difference?
Shaking my head, I hop down from the counter. “Good night, Rogan,” I lob at him before turning to head back to my room. I’ll take the nightmares over wasting one more breath on this idiot.
Frustration fills my steps, anger making them even heavier, and when Rogan calls my name in an effort to lure me back, I ignore it, focusing instead on putting one foot in front of the other to get as far away from him as possible. My covers are a mess just like I left them, my room still dark and foreign feeling. I grab the door and move to slam it behind me, no longer caring which Order asshole gets jarred from their too peaceful sleep. The door bounces against something and doesn’t close, and when I whirl to find out why, I discover Rogan’s big frame stomping into my room behind me.
“Get out,” I snarl, but all he does is quietly close the door behind his intrusion.
He stalks forward, fury radiating off of him, and it pisses me off even more. He has no right to be mad, I do.
“Let’s hear it, Lennox. Lay on me everything you think I’m doing wrong and howyoucould do it better. Don’t hold back, stop swallowing it down and thinking you’re fooling anyone. I see it in your eyes when you bother to look at me, so let’s hear it once and for all,” he goads.
“Eat a dick,” I snap indignantly.
