But I disagreed. Strongly. Neither of them would ever hurt me, but they would definitely hurt each other if they were both in the room when I told Marc what had happened.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Marc demanded.
“Nothing.” I shot Jace an angry, censoring look over Marc’s shoulder. “He thinks you’re on a hair trigger. Because you came in swinging.” Marc started to argue—vehemently—but I cut him off. “Jace, please go get us some ice. And maybe I could use a little tequila, after all.” To ease the pain in my arms, and smooth out the upcoming Shifts. And to settle my nerves, which felt like they were about to short-circuit, and take my brain with them.
“Fine. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” Jace snatched his shirt from the floor where Marc had dropped it, tugged it over his head in a series of angry, jerky motions, and stomped out the door. Without the car keys. Evidently there was a liquor store within walking distance of the motel—no real surprise, considering what little I’d seen of the neighborhood.
When Jace’s footsteps had faded from the sidewalk, Marc crossed the room and chained the door.
I sank onto the end of the nearest bed, wishing I could tighten the towel wrapped around my chest—or maybe dry my own hair—without exacerbating the pain in my arms. “That’s only going to piss him off.”
“You can see how much I care,” Marc snapped. He obviously no longer felt the need to be particularly civil, now that we weren’t in danger of triggering Jace’s latent, lingering bloodlust.
I sighed. “Marc, please. We don’t have time for this. You’re truly overreacting.” This time… My arms were killing me, but I was not going to use pain as an excuse to avoid the subject. That would be like flashing a little cleavage to get out of a traffic ticket.
“Good. What happened?”
“Nothing.” I forced myself to hold his gaze. “I can’t use my fucking hands, so he was helping me.” Shut up. You sound guilty when you cuss…
“That didn’t sound like helping, Faythe. Don’t lie to me. What the hell happened in there?”
I took a deep breath and sent up a silent thank-you for his blessedly restrictive phrasing. “We were just flirting. Joking around, like we used to. It was nothing, Marc.”
“Oh, yeah?” He snatched all three of the plastic bags from the table. “Then why is he acting like…like your fucking mate?” He gestured angrily toward the locked door with his free hand, since Jace wasn’t there to point at. “That wasn’t the reaction of a good friend. That wasn’t even the reaction of some poor fool with a crush. He’s acting…possessive.”
“No.” I shook my head. No. “He’s not acting possessive, he’s acting protective. Because you came in swinging. He’s an enforcer. Part of his job is to protect me, and he thought you were going to hurt me.”
“Only because he’s not thinking rationally. Because he thinks you’re his. If not up here…” Marc tapped his temple. “Then in here.” He poked his own chest hard enough to bruise, and I flinched.
“He’s always been protective of me. You all have. Hell, he stepped in front of a bullet for me, Marc. That’s no different from this.” That was true, but did nothing to assuage guilt so thick and heavy I could hardly breathe.
“The hell it isn’t.” He dropped the bags on the bedspread next to me but didn’t sit. “He’s never tried to defend you from me.”
“Maybe he never thought he needed to before.”
Marc recoiled like I’d punched him, and shame flooded me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment, and Marc began pulling supplies from the bags. Two bottles of hydrogen peroxide, a suture kit, sterile gauze, medical tape, a new pair of jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and underwear. And finally he sank onto the bed, folding the jeans while I sat with my useless hands in my lap.
“He’s not right, Faythe. He hasn’t been since Ethan died. He’s acting possessive of the Pride tabby.…” I opened my mouth to object—he knew how badly I hated being referred to as such—but he spoke over me, intent on making his point. “He’s resisting orders, challenging his superiors, bristling under authority.…”
Only your orders, you as his superior, and your authority. Jace had exhibited none of those reactions to my father. But I couldn’t say that until I was ready to say the rest of it.
“He’s acting like…” Marc looked up then and laid one hand on my leg to make sure he had my full attention. “Faythe, he’s acting like a challenger.” He hesitated, and I knew what was coming. I shook my head vehemently, but he said it, anyway. “He can’t stay. Once this is all over, Jace has to go.”
“No. No, Marc. He has nowhere to go.” Just like you.
“Faythe, it won’t work anymore. It’ll be like this—” he spread both arms to take in the whole horrible confrontation “—every day. You know it. And eventually he’ll challenge.”
I shook my head again, insistent. “Jace would never challenge my dad.”
Marc shrugged. “Of course not. There’s no reason to. When your dad feels like he’s no longer what we need, he’ll step down, because unlike Malone, he truly has the best interests of his Pride at heart.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Marc demanded.
“Nothing.” I shot Jace an angry, censoring look over Marc’s shoulder. “He thinks you’re on a hair trigger. Because you came in swinging.” Marc started to argue—vehemently—but I cut him off. “Jace, please go get us some ice. And maybe I could use a little tequila, after all.” To ease the pain in my arms, and smooth out the upcoming Shifts. And to settle my nerves, which felt like they were about to short-circuit, and take my brain with them.
“Fine. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” Jace snatched his shirt from the floor where Marc had dropped it, tugged it over his head in a series of angry, jerky motions, and stomped out the door. Without the car keys. Evidently there was a liquor store within walking distance of the motel—no real surprise, considering what little I’d seen of the neighborhood.
When Jace’s footsteps had faded from the sidewalk, Marc crossed the room and chained the door.
I sank onto the end of the nearest bed, wishing I could tighten the towel wrapped around my chest—or maybe dry my own hair—without exacerbating the pain in my arms. “That’s only going to piss him off.”
“You can see how much I care,” Marc snapped. He obviously no longer felt the need to be particularly civil, now that we weren’t in danger of triggering Jace’s latent, lingering bloodlust.
I sighed. “Marc, please. We don’t have time for this. You’re truly overreacting.” This time… My arms were killing me, but I was not going to use pain as an excuse to avoid the subject. That would be like flashing a little cleavage to get out of a traffic ticket.
“Good. What happened?”
“Nothing.” I forced myself to hold his gaze. “I can’t use my fucking hands, so he was helping me.” Shut up. You sound guilty when you cuss…
“That didn’t sound like helping, Faythe. Don’t lie to me. What the hell happened in there?”
I took a deep breath and sent up a silent thank-you for his blessedly restrictive phrasing. “We were just flirting. Joking around, like we used to. It was nothing, Marc.”
“Oh, yeah?” He snatched all three of the plastic bags from the table. “Then why is he acting like…like your fucking mate?” He gestured angrily toward the locked door with his free hand, since Jace wasn’t there to point at. “That wasn’t the reaction of a good friend. That wasn’t even the reaction of some poor fool with a crush. He’s acting…possessive.”
“No.” I shook my head. No. “He’s not acting possessive, he’s acting protective. Because you came in swinging. He’s an enforcer. Part of his job is to protect me, and he thought you were going to hurt me.”
“Only because he’s not thinking rationally. Because he thinks you’re his. If not up here…” Marc tapped his temple. “Then in here.” He poked his own chest hard enough to bruise, and I flinched.
“He’s always been protective of me. You all have. Hell, he stepped in front of a bullet for me, Marc. That’s no different from this.” That was true, but did nothing to assuage guilt so thick and heavy I could hardly breathe.
“The hell it isn’t.” He dropped the bags on the bedspread next to me but didn’t sit. “He’s never tried to defend you from me.”
“Maybe he never thought he needed to before.”
Marc recoiled like I’d punched him, and shame flooded me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment, and Marc began pulling supplies from the bags. Two bottles of hydrogen peroxide, a suture kit, sterile gauze, medical tape, a new pair of jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and underwear. And finally he sank onto the bed, folding the jeans while I sat with my useless hands in my lap.
“He’s not right, Faythe. He hasn’t been since Ethan died. He’s acting possessive of the Pride tabby.…” I opened my mouth to object—he knew how badly I hated being referred to as such—but he spoke over me, intent on making his point. “He’s resisting orders, challenging his superiors, bristling under authority.…”
Only your orders, you as his superior, and your authority. Jace had exhibited none of those reactions to my father. But I couldn’t say that until I was ready to say the rest of it.
“He’s acting like…” Marc looked up then and laid one hand on my leg to make sure he had my full attention. “Faythe, he’s acting like a challenger.” He hesitated, and I knew what was coming. I shook my head vehemently, but he said it, anyway. “He can’t stay. Once this is all over, Jace has to go.”
“No. No, Marc. He has nowhere to go.” Just like you.
“Faythe, it won’t work anymore. It’ll be like this—” he spread both arms to take in the whole horrible confrontation “—every day. You know it. And eventually he’ll challenge.”
I shook my head again, insistent. “Jace would never challenge my dad.”
Marc shrugged. “Of course not. There’s no reason to. When your dad feels like he’s no longer what we need, he’ll step down, because unlike Malone, he truly has the best interests of his Pride at heart.
