I wipe tears from my eyes. They come fast enough not to matter. My hands are wet with them. My cheeks too. “But you already knew my name, didn’t you?”
He doesn’t answer. But of course he’s always known. He was already in on the joke.
* * *
The place he brings me to is a house. A nice house in a quiet old neighborhood with faded paint and well-trimmed lawns. Modest but well-cared for. It doesn’t have the off-kilter charm of the Tropicana or the old-world allure of the Grand. This place is a home—only a few streets over from where I strip and hide. We’re pressed together in the city.
I back away from him, down the driveway. I need to get to Clara.
And most of all, I need to get away from him.
He catches my arm. “It’s not safe on the streets right now.”
“And I’m safe with you?”
His expression is dark. “Maybe not. But you don’t have a choice.”
He pulls me toward the door. I go with him—not that I have a choice. He’s stronger than me. Have I been trained not to fight that well? I feel numb. In shock. My arms and legs are wobbly. I’d fall if he didn’t propel me along. He props me against the wall and glances along the street before shutting the door and locking it.
It feels like we are in the middle of a battle, only I don’t have a weapon. My gaze flicks to my bag, which I dropped by the door.
The Taser.
“Don’t take me to Byron,” I say, almost begging, even though it’s a lost cause. The shooters at the ballroom prove I’ve already been found by other mercenaries. And Kip—he’s Byron’s brother. Of all people, I understand the hold that family has on us. “Don’t tell him you found me. Just let me go. I’ll run. I’ll—”
His eyes are so dark, almost angry as they take me in. He reaches up, and I flinch. His hand freezes an inch from my face. “He hurt you.”
“No,” I say too quickly. I don’t want Kip to know what his brother did. God, even I don’t want to know. If I could scrub it from my mind, I would. If I could take a scalpel and carve the memories out, I would. I’ll never let that happen to Clara, not ever.
“From the glass,” he says gently. “You’re bleeding.”
Oh. And sure enough, when I reach up, my fingers come away smeared with red.
I must still be in shock, because I’m standing there, staring at my blood like I’ve never seen it before. In fact I’ve seen my blood plenty of times. And cuts and bruises. We’re old friends. “It’s nothing,” I say. “I can’t feel anything.”
“It’s not nothing. Let me take care of you.” It sounds broader when he says it, like he’s talking about more than the cuts on my face.
“I don’t need anything from you.”
His eyes are dark, accepting my accusations. But not my answer. “Wait here.”
“Kip, please. Let me go. I need to go…”
“To your sister?” he asks softly. It’s not really a question though.
Dread is a cold stone in my stomach. “You can’t touch her. You can’t—”
“I’m not going to do anything to her.”
“So you can turn us in for whatever price is on our head?”
“It’s not about the fucking money.”
I smile grimly. “It’s always about the money.”
He grasps my chin, careful not to push the glass in deeper. He manages not to touch my cuts at all. But his look is just as sharp. “I’m not going to give you to Byron. But I am going to use you. To put a stop to this. To end it.”
“How?” I whisper. There are a lot of ways this can end.