Liv’s mind chased several images—Zeke dining alone, Grams laying a gentling hand on his arm, Cruz whispering harsh words in his brother’s ear, Phin’s look of betrayal.
Carefully, she asked, “What’s wrong?”
A small, sad smile kicked at the corner of his mouth. “A complicated answer, though I suppose I can sum it up by saying with every decision I make, every question I ask, every job I accept, I shred my brothers’ reasons for staying. One day, soon, I will do something that will snap their tie to this place—to me—in two.”
Liv frowned. “That can’t be true. I’ve seen y’all together. You’re as close as any family can be.”
“But did you look beneath the surface? At the rot and decay and their—their disappointment?”
“Disappointment and frustration and annoyance are natural emotions in every family.” She moved closer. “You’ll work through it.”
“The tension has been worsening over the past year. They’re reaching their breaking points.”
“You believe the longsword’s presence will fix this, how?”
He stiffened, yet still kept his back to her. “The sword itself won’t fix what’s broken, but . . .” His voice faded.
Silence stretched.
“But?”
He shook his head, either unwilling or unable to form the words.
Her conversation with Johona surfaced, and a sudden realization cleaved through her confusion. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost confidence in his ability to lead BARS. It could have been one disastrous incident or a hundred insignificant ones.
Confidence could go two ways. It could soak up the world around it and grow stronger. Or it could turn inward and feed on itself until nothing but crumbs remained.
She’d seen the way his brothers all but leaned forward when he spoke in meetings. They respected him and would follow him anywhere. All they needed were his respect and his belief in them in return.
Sometimes a thing had to fail before a truth showed itself.
“Lan Sardoff will pronounce you as the rightful owner, then we can bring Lupos home.”
When he finally angled his head around to look at her, his gaze held something even more powerful than hope. “We?”
She stared at him, feeling exposed and uncertain. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop her growing attraction to this man. Sleeping in his home and seeing how good he was with her son had not helped her cause.
Neither did being alone with him in her bedroom, behind a closed door, in the middle of the night. Although raw, unchecked danger pulsed off him, there was something vulnerable in his unkempt state that made her want to enfold him in her arms and whisper everything would be okay into his ear.
“Of course. I got you into this.” She tapped her glass against the air between them. “I won’t abandon you now.”
She tipped back her drink, remembering too late what nastiness lurked inside. Gulping down the whiskey, she willed herself not to cough or, worse, throw up.
Fire ignited in her throat, streamed down her esophagus, and fanned through her stomach. She attempted a breath, but the fire vaporized what little she had in her lungs.
She tried again.
Nothing.
A large hand whacked her between the shoulder blades and air wheezed past her lips.
“You okay?” His face filled her tear-blurred vision.
She nodded. “Wrong hole.”
He gave her a knowing look and disappeared. The faucet in the bathroom turned on, and the whiskey faded to the background.
Had she picked up her dirty underwear off the floor?