Super Secret | Half Hero Book 2 [ON HOLD]

Chapter 31: Homeopathic Funk

When I woke I was alone in the bunkroom surrounded by stripped beds and empty shelves.

In the main room of the rustic cabin, the Scions were rushing to gather their supplies in large plastic tubs. Though, Cyrus was nowhere to be seen, which was a small relief.

Nawell watched me from her position at the woodstove where she stirred a pot of oatmeal. Basem had a knowing smirk on his face as he quietly folded up blankets and towels while Isla avoided me completely. Valentina was her usual chipper self, ready with a sassy comment and a withering glare if I dared look her way. 

Mac watched me march across the room toward the door, and didn't argue when I yanked it open to peek out at the cold light of day.

Crawling into the blinding sun bouncing off the downy snow, I climbed up a large drift that extended off the porch. A set of elongated footprints pointed a singular trail into the blanketed trees.

Carefully I folded my feet into Cyrus' impressions to find him standing near the base of an enormous tree, staring up into its frosted branches.

"That's how you get an icicle in the eyeball," I warned him, trying to gauge his emotional state. "Up to several people die every year from that."

Cyrus leveled his amber eyes on me, his mouth curved into a tight smile. I kept a wide birth, just in case he was upset.

"Forgive me," he bent his head to look away. "My behavior last night was-"

"No," I replied, interrupting his martyrdom.

"What?"

"I said, no," I repeated myself. "I don't want an apology or an excuse. I know how addiction works."

Cyrus flinched, as if he wanted to ask me a question, but he steadied himself with a heavy breath.

"It won't happen again," he said stoically while I choked on my pride. "It was a mistake."

My jaw tightened as I ground my teeth to keep from saying something I'd regret later. 

He didn't want to open up to me. In fact, I could see him closing ranks around the few emotions he'd let slip through his careful guard already. His blasé explanation didn't match the profound expression burning in his eyes (or the way his passionate kiss still stung my lower lip) but I didn't argue.

"I think everyone's getting ready to go," I informed him, flattening my tone to match his disinterest. "Don't forget your trench coat."

"Ella," he called after I'd turned to leave.

"Yeah?" I sighed, watching the heat of my frustration crystalize in the frigid air and refusing to look back.

When he didn't answer, I stomped clumsily away, falling through the tiny snow chasms I was stabbing in the unstable surface with my heels. It wasn't very dignified, but I was done with that conversation.

I meant what I'd said. I truly understood the icy fingers of shame that peel an addict's eyes open the next day to witness the consequences of their own terrible decisions while high or blind drunk. 

The thing is, you rarely have any memory of your bad actions. All you can do is listen to the horrors you are capable of from the mouths of the people you hurt. I wanted to know if Cyrus remembered our kiss, or if his siblings told him what he'd done. Was he embarrassed? Was he mad at me for not stopping it? Was he acting on feelings he didn't know existed? 

Either way, he didn't want to talk about it. Not with me. Not with anyone.

Besides, if he wanted to make things weird between us, so be it. I promised Mac that I was going to be more mature for the sake of the team, and I'd meant that too. So, Cyrus could suck it.