He'd thrown a chair.
He'd been so uselessly angry after Penelope had run out, it needed to expunge itself some way, any way. And it was true, for the moment after it had struck the wall and broken, he felt good. Exceptionally good, as if throwing something else, breaking anything else, might make him feel even better.
Just as he reached for the second one, though, the feeling dissipated, quick as it had come.
No, there was just anger. Interminable, plateauing anger that he could not get rid of, and was not sure he wanted to.
For the last hour, or so it seemed, he stood and studied his handy work, the broken pieces of wood lying within a five-foot radius of the wall he'd hurled it at. When he would clean it, he felt the urge to do it without magic, to pick up each splintered part and perhaps feel it catch on his hands.
When he heard her call, he fought between cold indifference and the hot temper that was bubbling just underneath the surface. What made up his mind, though, was the controlling himself around Sadie, Stephen, and Brian. Before he'd decided to answer her or not, he heard foosteps approaching—just the one set, it seemed.
"Feel as though you might have an explanation for me today?" He kept his back turned, his voice just south of neutral.
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