Ash's POV
The living room was a battlefield.
Not one made of weapons or blood, but silence, tension, and the barely-contained rage vibrating off Ash like heat from a wildfire.
He sat stiffly in the armchair near the fireplace, arms crossed so tightly across his chest it looked like he was trying to hold himself together. His jaw was clenched so hard it was a wonder his teeth hadn't shattered from the pressure.
He wasn't just angry.
He was seething.
"You're gonna burn a hole in the floor with that stare," Forrest said casually, flopping backward onto the couch and swinging his legs up like he had no idea he was walking into a minefield.
Ash didn't respond. He stared straight ahead, silver eyes locked onto nothing, his fury simmering just beneath the surface.
Brooks wandered in from the kitchen, sipping something from a mug. "Still brooding? Goddess, man, you look like you're ready to go feral."
"I'm not brooding," Ash said sharply.
