Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92118 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92118 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
That’s about enough of that.
I grab his wrist, applying pressure points to make him release me. He does with a curse and then seems to come back to himself. “Fuck. Sorry.”
The urge to rub my upper arm is there, but I resist it. “It’s fine. What’s going on?” As angry as I still am, anything that makes Cohen lose his cool takes priority.
He opens his mouth, seems to consider what he was about to blurt out, and finally curses. “This is going to sound so fucking ridiculous.”
Okay, now I’m really worried. I cross my arms over my chest. “I won’t understand until you explain.”
“I was trying to be fucking nice. Maddox is always telling me I’m too fucking harsh with Winry. She’s so damn soft, I make one wrong move and I’m worried I’m going to bruise her.” He drags his hand through his hair and winces. “Women like to feel wanted.”
Women like to feel wanted? What in the hell is going on? “Cohen,” I put a little snap in my voice.
“She’s fucking furious.” He looks at me, his amber eyes a little wild around the edges. “She threw a lamp at my head.”
That doesn’t sound like the Winry I’ve slowly come to know over the past three weeks. The curvy blond is as sweet as Monroe is salty. Cohen’s right; she’s got a softness that makes even me move carefully around her. And not just because I’m 100 percent sure Monroe would slit the throat of anyone who made her beloved little sister cry. “She…threw a lamp…at your head?”
“Yes.” He rubs his temple. “She’s got wicked aim, too.”
I don’t even know what to say to that. “What did you do?”
“I just said…” He clears his throat. “She’s in a certain way, so—”
All the blood rushes out of my head. “She’s pregnant?” Forget slitting someone’s throat. Monroe is going to skin both Cohen and Maddox alive.
“What? No! That’s not what I fucking said.” He goes so pale, I am slightly horrified to realize he has freckles. “She’s on her fucking period.”
I wait for the rest, but apparently that’s all it is. “Cohen,” I say slowly. “I don’t care what common culture says about people on their periods. They do not turn from sweet people into lamp-wielding maniacs. You did something.”
“No shit, I did something.” He drags his hand through his hair again. Winces again when he touches where the lamp apparently made contact. “She was talking shit about how she looked and felt, and I just said I don’t care about a little blood when it comes to fucking.”
I stare. Of course he did. For someone who is easily the most ruthless Paine brother, I don’t know if I’m freaked out or strangely amused to see him so out of sorts. “And that’s when she threw the lamp.”
“Right at my fucking head!”
The upside of this ridiculous conversation is that my anger has all but drained away. I sigh. “Depending on a number of factors, she’s probably feeling anywhere from vaguely uncomfortable to in true pain. The last thing she wants is your cock mucking things up.”
“I realize that now,” he grits out. “How do I make it right?”
Maybe later I’ll wonder at the fact Cohen even cares about the feelings of someone beyond Maddox and his brothers. Maybe. “You could try asking her.” He makes a face, and I press on. “Easy options—a snack she likes, some kind of movie or book or something to keep her occupied, maybe a hot bath or heating pad if she feels up to it. Not sex. Some people like sex on their periods, but for fuck’s sake, Cohen, that shouldn’t be your go-to.”
“How was I supposed to know?”
He’s got me there. It’s not as if he’s close to any of the people who menstruate in our group. Certainly not close enough to be in a comforting role during that time. “Now you do.”
“Yeah.” He gets a focused look that is, honestly, slightly terrifying. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Great.”
He gives himself a shake. “You needed something?”
“Not anymore.” Now that I have the tiniest sliver of distance, I realize that I can’t run to Cohen—or anyone else—with this problem. It has nothing to do with the mission or the safety of the faction. It’s personal.
That means it needs to be handled personally. “I have it taken care of.”
“Good.” He’s already turning for the door, but he stops before he reaches it. “Maddox and I need to talk to you about the Amazons tomorrow morning. Seven.”
“Okay.” I take several deep breaths after the door closes behind him. It smells faintly musty in the room. A few more breaths and I know what I need to do—the exact opposite of what I want to do.
Talk to Broderick.
It doesn’t matter if he’s acting like a stranger right now. He’s my best friend. We just need to sit down and hash it out. Sure, we’ve never really had an argument before, but we’ve had difficult conversations in the past, have trusted each other with things we don’t talk about generally.