Page 121 of Cold Mercy

“Go dry your hair,” I mutter.

Still buzzing with adrenaline, with want, with something dangerously close to hope, I go downstairs. But the second I hit the bottom step, all of it drops out of me like someone cut the wires.

Because I see Charles standing in the kitchen, laughing about something.

And she’s there with him, leaning against the counter, arms folded, eyes soft in a way I haven’t earned in a long time.

My jaw grinds.

Fuck him. He’s a placeholder, a warm body, nothing else. She’s not his, not even close. She’ll be mine. No, small fucking correction. She's mine. She has no idea she became mine the second her lips touched mine for the first time.

This frat-boy knockoff can start packing whatever fucking bag he crawled here with, because he’s not surviving if he keeps looking at her like that.

Sophia notices me first and quickly looks away as if reminding herself she hates me, and I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice steady as I pass through the kitchen without starting a war. Because one wrong comment and I’ll drag him out by his throat.

By the time I get outside, the sun is sliding low and warm across the lake, the sky streaked with soft pinks that make everyone look happier. People are clustering around the fire pit, dragging logs into a circle, passing drinks, laughing like they’ve known each other their whole lives.

Sophia walks ahead of me, shaking water from her hair with one hand and holding that stupid cup of tea in the other. She barely hesitates before choosing a spot right beside Charles. Her knee touches his as she sits, and he shifts closer like he thinks he’s earned that right.

My jaw flexes hard enough that I feel it in my teeth. I take the empty seat directly across from them. A deliberate choice, like always. Close enough for her to feel me watching, far enough that I don’t throttle the asshole next to her.

James drops beside me, still damp from the lake and grinning like an idiot.

“You look like you’re about to commit a felony,” he mutters under his breath.

I nudge him with my shoulder, pretending I didn’t hear him hit the nerve dead center.

Elizabeth appears with a bottle of tequila she definitely didn’t have earlier, wearing a satisfied, slightly wicked smile.

“Oh no,” I say under my breath.

“Oh yes,” she declares, passing the bottle around like it's communion wine.

Then Maya, the nineteen-year-old chaos gremlin, lights up like Christmas.

“I have an idea!” she announces way too loudly. “Truth or dare. If you refuse either, you drink.”

A mixed chorus of groans, laughs, and half-shouted, ‘Are we twelve?’ rises from the circle, but in the end, nobody actually tells her no.

And because I’m the oldest person here who isn’t married or engaged, I’m not about to be the one to kill the vibe and look like a grumpy fucking uncle.

Maya claps her hands, delighted. “Great! I’m starting. It’s my game.”

Elizabeth cheers as if Maya just announced something groundbreaking.

Maya points at me. “You first, handsome.”

James leans back and whispers, “Good luck, cowboy.”

I hope she doesn’t ask me to chug half the tequila or strip or some other teenage bullshit, so I pick the safer option. “Question.”

She winks like she just won something. “Okay, then. Do you have someone? A girlfriend? A person you’re seeing?”

Everyone does the collective teenage ooohhh, and I swear to God I see Sophia’s eyes in that mix, like she couldn’t care less but wants to hear the answer anyway.

Charles places his hand on her knee like he owns it, and I clench my jaw so hard I nearly dislocate it.

Sophia tilts her head, eyes glinting across the fire. “Well? Do you, Reed?”