Page 7 of Last Man Standing

But I can’t give up. I won’t give in.

Not until I figure out how to deal with my problem. So for now, I spend my time with Nova. And hell, it’s not a hardship to do so. Not even a little.

Last night, Lincoln helped her cook dinner, but the entire time I sat at their counter and faked a smile, he watched.

Unrelenting.

Disapproving.

Obstinate.

At bedtime, he showed me to the guest bedroom, carried my bags in, and stood guard as I unpacked my things. He folded his muscular arms and gritted his jaw, unyielding while I slid clothes into the drawers set out for guests. He glowered as I brushed my teeth and pretended I couldn’t see him in the mirror.

Good lord. The man is more insistent than a starved dog at a bone.

This morning, he cooked bacon and eggs on the stove. And he glared.

While I ate, he sneered.

While I attempted to load my dishes in the washer, he took charge, relieved me of my duties… and scowled.

As I wandered along the hall on my way to my room to get dressed for the day—and seriously considered packing my suitcase and escaping out the window—he watched me with suspicion burning in his dark eyes.

And the instant I closed my door, their other guest appeared. Heavy footsteps moved along the hall, then voices started up.

“God.” I lean against the door, tilting my head back until my skull raps against the hardwood with a thunk. I crush the heels of my palms to my eyes and groan, even as my heart pounds a painful beat inside my chest.

I just wanted somewhere to lose myself for a few days. I wanted time with my big brother, to feel safe in this place, in this time, despite the rest of the world spinning out of control. While my enemies plot and my past gleefully follows me everywhere I go, slapping me on the ass and callously nudging me toward insanity, I was hoping for a little reprieve and a whole lot of silence.

“I shouldn’t have come here.” I drop my hands and exhale a tired sigh. Blinking my vision clear, I study the notebook laid out on my bed, and scattered on top, the pens I’m not sure I could survive without.

Not with all my faculties in place, anyway.

My phone vibrates amongst the mess, buzzing against books and pens and whatever other crap I insist on carting around with me everywhere I go. Nova’s voice joins the others in the kitchen, though hers edges toward shut the hell up and leave her alone, which is a pleasant alternative to give me ten minutes alone with her and a bottle of vinegar. I’ll get the information we need.

Tank said that.

Tank.

What kinda friggin’ name is Tank, anyway?

Shaking my head, I wander to my bed and scoop my phone up to find not just one text, but two.

Nova:

I’m gonna send them into town in a few minutes. We don’t need bread or milk, but I’m telling them we do. I won’t ask about the thing you’re not talking about. But if you wanna discuss it, I’m around.

And then a second text, received while I was in the kitchen swallowing pig meat and fried eggs.

Mills:

Heya, sweetheart. Just checking in. Hope you’re well.

Exhaling a noisy sigh, I flop onto my stomach and stare at the nonsensical scribbles all over my notebook. The colorful patterns and random squiggles.

I don’t cart notebooks around to jot down my deepest, darkest secrets. Nor are they to keep track of the things I want to remember.

No, I obsess over my paper and pen supply simply so I have something to keep my hands busy. A way to combat the spinning, sprinting, toiling thoughts making a mockery of my brain.