Page 4 of Fuse

Though he peers up, still all hunched and brooding gargoyle about it, and bites out enough profanity to prove that he knows.

And isn’t happy about it.

Which could have to do with that sausage grinder of a few other emotions too. Yeah, the ones I feel as clearly and painfully as my own. Frustration, rage…grief.

But that’s the thing about meat grinders. In the end, the pile is still just a carcass.

“Reece—”

“Don’t.”

“Damn it—”

“I said don’t, Emmalina.”

He slashes his arm out, which propels his fresh escape from me. The distance is more than physical. I pull in a deep breath, telling myself it’s temporary. Everything’s simply going to be hard today, and I’ve only made it harder by serving him a huge platter of tough love. But damn it, if the man wants to find the golden ticket to being mortal again, he has to start acting mortal again. He has to realize he’s not really from another planet and that the electricity in his veins doesn’t preclude him from being a homo sapiens who needs shit like food and sleep and mental health breaks to survive. Commodities he’s been skipping more often than accepting.

A conclusion that’s going to make my next words sound like I’m the one who needs several hours of sleep and an hour of punching bag time. Or, damn it, the Plan B option—aptly named, considering the power of a certain B-word around here…

“Maybe…you need to do a patrol in town tonight.” Oh, yes. That did taste as bad as I thought it would. Though, like a vegan pizza, I know it’s good for us both. “I mean, you’re already dressed for it—and maybe blowing off some steam will help you clear out the cobwebs.” In more ways than one. Or five or six. Or twelve. But damn it, my quip clearly goes over like two-day-old soda alongside the pizza. “You could take Sawyer.”

He snorts. “What? So he can keep me in line?”

“So someone can say when you’ve had enough.”

He barks out a laugh, bracing hands on his hips. I try not to fixate on how that stretches the black leather across his taut backside in all the right ways. It has to be the most inappropriate thought at the absolute worst time—especially because my priority here is keeping that ass, and everything attached to it, alive.

“When I’ve had enough?”

I fold my arms. If I don’t, I seriously might summon my inner Ant Girl, swing the stubborn ox over my head, and haul him for a lengthy lockdown in the walk-in freezer. “Of driving yourself, as well as everyone around here, to the brink of exhaustion.” I first go for the voice of—gasp—reason. “It’s the truth and you know it, baby,” I level as gently as I can. “Wade, Fersh, Alex…they’re all barely thinking straight. You hit that point at least a week ago.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sure,” I retort. “And that’s why you’re looking ready to fight enemy orcs from the hills at any second?”

“I’m fine, damn it.”

“You’re not fine.”

“Goddamnit, Emma.”

“Sure. I’m fine with God joining us too.” I push my feet into a ready stance, undeterred by his battering-ram glare. “He’ll tell you I’m right too. That you’re still seeing all the damage your dad caused as some kind of punishment from him to you—and that by fixing the issues, you’ll somehow redeem yourself.” I symbolize that with a sweep of one hand and then the other. “You’re on a mission to make things right, which is why you refuse to stop. Why all the tests, experiments, analyses, and theories still don’t feel like enough.”

He huffs in a bullish rhythm. “Look, baby. We have to keep clawing our way to results on this shit. We’re not playing subterfuge softball with those bastards anymore.”

“I’m aware of that, Reece.”

“Then you also remember that this is the Big Show, with cowhide balls and ace batters in the box ready to crack line drives into our gonads. We don’t have time to binge a bunch of CGI cinema with guys in tights and call it corporate training videos.”

“I’m not talking Netflix and beer for three days.” I return my hands to my sides. “This is simply about actually sleeping a full eight hours, or—oh, my God—sitting down at the table, with silverware and place settings, for a whole meal. And perhaps—gasp—actually talking to your friends about something other than platelet count, DNA variables, and—”

“I stopped for a full meal with you last night.”

I return his adamant finger by jabbing up one of my own. “That was a last-minute picnic on the backyard lawn, with cold chicken on plastic plates,” I parry. “Besides, you barely ate anything.”

“I snacked on…other things.” The smoke in his voice filters into the heat in his stare as he pivots all the way back to me. I’m sorely tempted to sock him in the shoulder, except the only bearable hour in his week—and mine—was our escape by the pool last night.

But I’m not up here to be his meal-replacement option again. The darker cast in his gaze confirms he knows that too. With heavy steps, he returns to my side, latches his hand into mine, and keeps trudging until we’ve stopped on the sundrenched curve of hill between the two memorial markers.