Just Like This (Albin Academy #2) - Cole McCade Page 0,67
spines, though he stopped on the Reluctant Royals trilogy, tugging out A Princess in Theory and cradling it gently in his hands, looking down at the cover with such clear curiosity and interest that Damon didn’t expect the next pointedly mild, “So that’s all it is, then? We make each other so angry that a kiss was a safe outlet to vent that frustration.”
Inwardly, Damon groaned. Outwardly, he only shrugged. “Seems like all it needs to be.”
“Intriguing.” Rian lightly ran his delicate fingertips over the cover of the novel, following the coils of mauve concentric circled patterns against the bright teal of the heroine’s dress. “I’ve heard enough about these books to know...in that trope, isn’t their anger just a mask over their attraction? Don’t they usually end up falling into bed, then falling wildly, torridly in love?”
Damon stared at that innocent expression on Rian’s face, barely hiding the laughter glittering in hazel eyes. “It’s a book, Rian. Not reality.”
With an exaggerated intake of breath, Rian fluttered a hand to his chest. “Gasp. He calls me something other than ‘Falwell.’ It’s starting already. He’s in love with me, and now—” He paused, cocking his head at Damon, while Damon scowled. “He’s going to scowl at me furiously. And tell me to—”
“Stop being a brat,” Damon snarled, right as Rian echoed,
“—stop being a brat.”
While Damon glowered, the back of his neck hot, Rian let out a delighted laugh.
“I’ll stop,” that little brat said, and leaned forward to set the romance novel on the coffee table with utmost care, his smile lingering. “I’m sorry for teasing. I did need something to lift my mood after what a day it’s been.” With a sigh, he folded his hands over his knee, looking across the room at Damon with a sort of dry, frank warmth. “It’s fine, Damon. It is. We’re both adults. We kissed. It was a moment of impulse. We don’t need to make drama over it.”
Damon eyed him—but despite that impish glitter in his eyes, there was nothing false about that honestly presented statement; no artifice or mockery. “I can work with that,” Damon said slowly. “And I don’t mind your teasing. I get needing a pick-me-up.” He frowned. “This is feeling pretty damned bleak.”
Rian’s smile faded. “And I hate it,” he said. “I was always told this was where parents sent their problem children to be forgotten.” He glanced away, his pointed chin resting to his shoulder as his gaze drifted out the window; sunset light fell through the glass until it felt like it was trying to mirror the gold-spangled light in the art classroom, in how it kissed his skin. “But that’s not Chris. No one deserves to be just dumped off somewhere like a burden no matter their mistakes, but...” His mouth creased into a bitter line. “He’s so good. So kind. Any parent should be proud of him. How could they just...leave him here, and not care?”
That question shouldn’t have hit Damon so hard.
Except it was a question he’d asked himself so many times.
So many fucking times.
How could they just leave me?
A lifetime of wondering why he didn’t look like his mom and dad, only for them to tell him the truth when he was old enough. Kids on the playground sneering he didn’t have a mom and dad, not real ones, and kicking dirt at him until he got big enough to kick back and suddenly everyone gave him a wide berth, like he was some kind of hulking violent monster who’d lash out at them for no reason at any minute instead of a wounded child defending himself. Wondering if he would’ve been treated that way if he’d grown up among people who’d looked like him, who saw him and not some big brown ignorant brute...and wondering why that had been taken away from him.
His fists clenched—and he had to turn away from Rian, or his face might...give him away, he didn’t know. But he gave Rian his back, staring down at the tea mugs and then forcing himself to go through the motions, finishing ripping open those bags and dropping them in before lashing in probably too much damned sugar from the little pour-spout dispenser, but he didn’t care right now and he wasn’t really thinking about that, not when his hands were tight and his gut roiled and his heart beat like an echoed memory of ringing, awful bells summoning up terrible and hurtful things.