Irvin's POV
The Jenkin breakfast table was my personal hell, but I suffered through it anyway. For Mom. For Barnaby. For reasons that made less sense each passing day.
I sat in silence, choking down the eggs and toast on my plate. Dad's voice boomed across the dining room as he barked at whoever was unlucky enough to be on the other end of his call, the morning already poisoned with tension.
Will Jenkin ended his conversation and strode to his chair, carrying that familiar air of authority. His stare locked onto my cheek immediately.
The bruise blazed purple and raw against my skin.
I felt his scrutiny before he opened his mouth.
He settled into his seat, his face turning to stone. "What happened to your face?"
I kept my eyes down, continued slicing through my food. "Nothing."
"Nothing?" His voice turned razor-sharp. "Hope you won."
I made a noncommittal sound—not quite agreement, not quite denial. No way was I giving him the satisfaction of a straight answer.
