Byron sits and gives me a bland smile. You’d never think he was inside me one minute ago. “Go back to the party. We have business to discuss.” He pauses, then adds, “Enjoy yourself, darling.”
We aren’t in love. I hate him, and I think he might hate me too—for being born into the right family. Just with the wrong gender. If I’d been a man, I would have taken over the business in my own right. As it is, the other families require a man to lead, to respect. It’s not only my cunt that keeps me docile, though. I don’t have the heart to fight, to lead, to kill like they do.
Like Byron does. I’m terrified of him, but we’ll be married in a matter of months.
Chapter Six
Kip prepares my coffee.
Of all the things that have happened in my life over the past twelve months, over the past twenty years, this is the thing I find strangest. He not only orders my coffee, but when it becomes clear I am not moving to take it, he pulls the little packet to his side. I’ve never been served, never been helped by people who weren’t paid to do it. Never been helped by anyone who didn’t have something to gain. So what is he after?
“Cream?” he asks.
I nod my head, and he tears the lid off the little cup of nondairy creamer. We’re sitting at a corner booth in a crappy diner. Everything is dirty here, including me. But not him. He’s not exactly clean either. He’s something else. Something dark and serious and solemn. His hands mesmerize me, so large and strong and yet careful. He’s stone, rough-edged and impenetrable. And I am air, already blowing away.
“Sugar?”
My nod is surer this time, quicker, because I want to see him do this.
He doesn’t disappoint. Broad, square-tipped fingers rip open a single blue packet. He pours sugar into the black liquid and stirs. He gives me this, when all the other men just take and take.
I have experience with big, strong men. Careful ones too. I know they are the worst kind. But somehow I don’t think he’ll hurt me. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Maybe he’s a mirage. I could open my eyes and find myself in the middle of a desert, dying of thirst. But that’s where I’ve been. Even if he’s an illusion, it can’t hurt worse than the truth.
I wrap my hands around the ceramic, trying to soak up the warmth.
As if he notices, as if he cares, he says, “Want my jacket?”
“No.” Every kind thing he does makes me want him more. And makes me push him farther away.
Weary amusement flickers over his coarse features. “I appreciate you coming here with me.”
“You didn’t give me much of a choice.”
“No.” He sobers. “No, I didn’t. And I imagine you’ve had your fill of men pushing you around.”
I shift on the hard plastic cushion. I’ve been pushed around in the literal sense. Does he know that? Is it possible he knows where I’m running from—who I’m running from? But the more likely answer is he means the men at the strip club. “I can take care of myself.”
“I don’t doubt that.” There’s a pause while he seems to be debating how much to tell me. “I’ve been watching you.”
How much do you know? “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze intent on mine. “I’m not planning to hurt you. I just want to get to know you.”
My chest tightens. “Where I come from, that’s the same thing.”
His eyes darken. “But you can take care of yourself,” he says, the words a challenge.
The smile that comes out is more a baring of teeth. It’s either that or cry. “I’m gone, aren’t I? And I’m never going back.”
He’s not impressed. “You’re dancing in a strip club and walking down the worst street in Tanglewood. You have no defenses. You have nothing to protect yourself.”
I flinch. “Is this how you get to know someone? By insulting them?”
Regret passes over his face. “No. I’m an asshole. I just meant maybe you don’t have it all figured out. And that maybe I could help.”
“No one can help me.” No one goes up against the Moretti family and lives.
Which is why I know that one day they’ll find me. And kill me. As long as they don’t touch Clara, I’m okay with that. That’s enough. It has to be.