“You let those three sit around and chat for how long?”
I don’t react to his rage. “About an hour, all said and done.”
“Why the fuck did you think that’s a good idea?”
“I didn’t think it was a good idea, but Harlow set it up, so I handled chaperoning.” I clench my fists, but I make no other move. Cohen is wound more tightly than I expected. He’s practically emoting, even if it’s rage. “She’s right, though. They work better as hostages if we allow them to see each other.”
“It gives them too much time to plot.”
“Are we supposed to keep them prisoners for the entire year? Should we all take a page out of Ezekiel’s book and tie our Brides to the bed? You think soft little Winry would survive that without untold mental trauma?”
He flinches. It’s the tiniest of movements, but it’s there nonetheless. “I didn’t say that.”
“We had a plan when we came into this. It involves letting Monroe and Fallon travel back and forth between here and their respective factions. Their good behavior is solely dependent on the quality of hostages we have here. Keeping them from their family is counterproductive.”
Cohen exhales and looks away. “I’m aware.”
“What’s the real problem, then?”
“Your Bride.”
Now it’s my turn to flinch. “Excuse me?”
“I’m sure Abel already talked to you, but if you don’t get this situation under control, it’s going to get ugly.”
All this is true. It also doesn’t explain why Cohen is so fucking emotional. He doesn’t know Monroe, and even if he did—she’s not family. Cohen’s priority lines are stark and clear; the few people he cares about and everyone else. “And?”
“And what?”
“Why do you care? She’s just some Amazon. Who gives a fuck if she lives or dies?” I do. I push the words down, hoping they don’t show on my face. “Why is everyone on my shit about this?”
Cohen stares at me for a long moment, the menace coming off him nearly filling the room. He finally says, “If Monroe dies, it will make Winry sad.” Without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks out of the room.
I release the breath I was holding. I expected the coldness from Cohen, same as I expected it from Abel. I didn’t reckon on the reason. I don’t know what to make of that. My brother has been acting strangely, but we’ve all been acting strangely since returning to Sabine Valley, from Abel down to Gabriel. This situation, no matter how much we’ve planned around it, is a lot more complicated than we expected. These Brides aren’t just pawns to be moved about a chessboard at Abel’s whim.
They’re people.
Sabine Valley isn’t just another city for us to linger in until it’s time to move on. It was home once. I know at least half of my brothers hope it will be home again. I don’t know if that’s possible. This place has held some of the happiest and some of the most horrific times of my life. My feelings are too damn complicated, and if I could just scrape the taste of ash from my tongue, maybe I could think properly.
If I can’t figure this shit out and Monroe dies as a result, more than Winry will be sad, and Cohen will be at my throat. Shiloh will be sad. She cares about Monroe enough to get intimate with her, and that’s reason enough for me to have a frank conversation with both of them.
Not because I care.
I want Monroe, but I don’t give a fuck about her. Not one bit.
It takes longer than I want to admit to get my head on straight. By the time I go to the room that’s supposed to be mine and Monroe’s, it’s late. I don’t really expect the women to be asleep—or otherwise engaged—but I knock all the same. Just in case.
A few seconds later, Monroe opens the door and leans against it. She’s wearing an oversized T-shirt and little else. She grins. “Hey, handsome. Come here often?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Why? It’s so funny to see the way your jaw clenches when I do.” She steps back, holding the door open for me. “From the very serious look on your face, I suppose you’re not here for fun.”
“No. I’m not.”
“How unfortunate.”
I step into the room and look around. “Where’s Shiloh?”
“Not back yet.” She shrugs. “I thought she might be with you.”
“She wasn’t.” Despite my best efforts, I can’t help staring at the bed, picturing the sight that greeted me last time I was in this room. I clear my throat. “She’s not happy with me.”
“You think?” Monroe drops onto the bed and stretches her long, bare legs out. I notice the most absurd thing. Her toes are painted purple. She wiggles them at me. “See something you like?”
“No, of course not,” I lie. “Just my pain in the ass of a Bride.”