“Don’t be,” his brother says, waving away the apology. His eyes flash in warning but his voice stays level and low. “Don’t go taking the blame on this, Trin, on none of it. You had nothing to do with what happened to that bastard, you got that? Nothing at all.”
Despite the days and weeks that melted away behind them like ice in the blistering sun, Blain still refuses to call Gerrick by name. It’s always the gunner or that bastard or, if he’s in a particularly foul mood, that f*****g goddamn son of a b***h. “But I—”
“But nothing.” Blain stares at him until Trin has to drop his gaze. His brother’s eyes are hard and unyielding, unforgiving. “How many people know what you did to that truck? You told me, Aissa, who else?”
“No one,” Trin whispers. Blain frowns at him, waiting. Trin glances up
