Chapter 83 CONVOY
MERRIELYNN.
The tension in the room felt like a heavy blanket draped over my shoulders.
Suffocating.
Thick.
And inescapable.
I sat at the small kitchen table, my arms crossed over my chest, watching Cormac as he moved around the stove.
He cooked in silence, the rhythmic sounds of bacon sizzling and a spatula scraping against the pan filling the space between us.
I didn’t know what to do with myself. My thoughts felt too loud in the quiet. Cormac’s movements were precise and deliberate, like he was channeling some kind of frustration into the task.
When he finally turned around, plates in hand, his sharp gaze met mine.
There wasn't any anger in them, which was a good sign.
I think.
“Sit,” he said simply, motioning to the table.
I hesitated but then took the seat across from him, wary of his mood.
He placed a plate in front of me before settling into the chair on the other side. For a moment, I studied the food—eggs, bacon, toast—simple, but it smelled good. Cormac started eating, and I picked up my fork, unsure if I could stomach anything right now.
The silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the clinking of silverware.
Every now and then, his phone lit up on the table, and without fail, Cormac would pick it up, his fingers flying across the screen in response to whoever was messaging him. Each time, I felt the tension in the room spike, as if the phone itself was some kind of bomb waiting to go off.
When he finally set it down again, I couldn’t take the silence anymore. The tension was suffocating.
“How long am I supposed to stay a prisoner in your house?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
Cormac’s eyes lifted to meet mine, and for a moment, I couldn’t read his expression. His gaze was cool, detached, like he was assessing me. Then he looked down, cutting into his food without a word.
I glanced at his plate. It was piled high with meat, much more than... normal.
My thoughts wandered as I chewed on a piece of bacon.
Was this a lycan thing?
Did their metabolism require more food?
For all I knew, lycans were more cannibalistic than anyone let on. Or was it just a Cormac thing?
“I have no intentions of causing you bodily harm,” Cormac said suddenly, breaking the silence.
I looked up, caught off guard by his words.
“You’ve never caused me bodily harm,” I replied softly.
The weight of what I meant hung heavy between us.
Cormac had never laid a hand on me, ever. But the damage he’d done in other ways—his coldness, his games, his control—was undeniable.
Glaringly undeniable when it was just us alone with the history we shared since the first day I showed up at Pinnthorpe.
His chewing slowed, and for a moment, he studied me like he was debating something.
I took a breath, exhaling as something else hit me. And I asked, “Earlier, when you said you... ‘took care of it’—what did that mean?”
Cormac’s jaw tightened, and his eyes locked onto mine suddenly. "Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to,” he said flatly.
The finality in his tone made me swallow whatever retort was forming on my lips.
Without another word, he stood and carried his plate to the sink. I watched him go, my appetite suddenly gone.
I finished my food in silence, my thoughts racing.
What had he done to the man who attacked me? And how far was Cormac willing to go to “take care” of things?
Later, I called Emorie, needing to hear a familiar voice. “Hey,” I said, forcing some brightness into my tone. “Sorry for not checking in. I’m with an old friend, catching up.”
Emorie started rambling, her words a blur as my mind wandered. I made a mental note to tell her the real story later. For now, I couldn’t risk Cormac overhearing me refer to him as anything remotely positive, let alone a savior.
I paced the length of the apartment as she talked, my eyes eventually drifting to the window.
Something outside caught my attention—a line of four sleek, black SUVs pulling up and parking along the curb. My steps slowed, my brows furrowing as I watched.
The sight stirred something in my memory, though I couldn’t quite place it.
The cars gleamed under the streetlights, their presence too deliberate, too coordinated to be random. Emorie’s voice faded into the background as I focused on the scene.
“What—” I started, but the sound of a door opening behind me made me turn.
Cormac stepped out of his room, pulling a shirt over his head as he walked toward the window.
His face was like thunder, his jaw tight, his movements tense. He reached the window, cursed under his breath, and yanked the curtains closed with a sharp tug.
“What’s going on?” I asked, my heart picking up speed at watching him unravel before my eyes.
I'd seen him like this before.
Twice.
Cormac turned to me, his expression grim. “This might give you déjà vu,” he said, his voice low, “but we have to hide.”
“Hide?” I echoed, staring at him. “Why? Who’s out there?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, his hand closed around my elbow, firm but not rough, and he started steering me toward the back of the apartment.
“Cormac,” I said, my voice rising. “Who are they? Why are we hiding?”
He glanced at me, his eyes dark. “They sent a convoy,” he said. “From the palace.”
My steps faltered, my pulse pounding in my ears.
A convoy.
From the palace.
A convoy like the one sent to my foster home that day? When I'd went back for the wolfsbane?
The words sent a chill down my spine as Cormac pulled me toward the back exit.