Concerto (North Security 2)

I don’t know why a twelve-year-old girl he’d never met mattered to him when a boy who lives in the same city doesn’t, but I’m not above using that to my advantage. “What if I ask you to?”

He freezes. “Ask me to what?”

I stand up from the bed and take a step closer to him—and almost, almost touch him. “You can use my violin money. If you buy the video, he won’t be able to hurt you.”

“You want this from me?”

A solemn nod.

The closet light flicks on, blinding me. His body blocks it, and then he’s getting dressed right in front of me. Worn jeans pulled on over his briefs. A T-shirt covering his abs. I’ve never watched him get dressed before, but there’s something studiously casual about his movements.

As if he’s hiding a black hole of emotion.

I’m wearing a tank top and panties, the same as I do every night. The same as I was when I walked in here, but I feel more exposed now that he’s wearing regular clothes.

The closet light casts his face in sharp contrast, the stark handsomeness of his features abutted against pure dark. “I’m not going to give that man a single goddamn cent, but if I did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be your violin money.”

There’s a boulder in my chest, crashing left and right. “You’re going to do it?”

“I’m going to do it,” he says, his tone grim, and I can’t shake the feeling that something powerful is in play, more than a guardian doing a favor for his ward.

“Tomorrow?” I ask.

He gives a low growl of assent. “Tomorrow.”

“You’re not… mad. Are you? About what happened?” I can’t quite look back at the bed where we were. I have only the fleeting impression of rumpled sheets. Sheets that had held Liam’s muscled body.

“At you? No.”

Acid rises in my throat. Oh, he’s going to blame himself. “Liam.”

He ties a knot with hard, efficient movements and stands. “You’ll stay here where it’s safe until I have the video. I’ll have Josh watch you. No sneaking out again.”

Such a parental thing to say. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” I tell him, earnest, desperate to save what I’ve already lost. I can feel the grains of sand between my fingers. “You didn’t hurt me. You only—”

You only bit me.

A humorless laugh is my answer. “The coach is abusing his power. You were the one telling me how wrong it is, how I should stop him. How is what I did on that bed any different?”

“Because I wanted it.”

He shakes his head, turning away from me. “That doesn’t matter.”

His broad back will be the last thing I see of him, on the one night he sees me as more than a child. I can’t let him leave this way. I’m done letting him tell me what to do. “It matters.”

I’m standing in his bedroom, my bare feet rooted to the ground. He’s in the doorway, his whole body tense as if he needs to flee. Well, maybe he does. Maybe he can’t handle what he wants or what I want. Maybe he can’t handle me, but I’ll be damned if I let him think he’s doing this for my own good.

“What did you say?” he asks, his voice soft.

Anyone else would be wary to hear that tone. Anyone else would be terrified

, but he had his chance to hurt me. He could have done so on the bed. And he could have hurt me worse, so much worse, if he hadn’t agreed to help me with Coach Price.

My voice still quavers as I stand my ground. “Rebels took the embassy in Jakarta. I was five years old, and I hid in the cabinets until they found me the next day.”

He makes a low sound of protest. “What’s your point?”

“The motorcade left me behind outside Moscow. It took my father two days to realize I wasn’t there. I hiked to the nearest village and begged them to let me stay in broken Russian.”