Fuck this. What am I doing—keeping her from going, talking about her kissing other guys? Next I’ll offer a shoulder to cry on and watch chick movies with her. Help her fix her relationship with another man, when I want her for myself.
“Listen, I’m gonna hit the shower and then the sack. I’m beat.” And pissed at myself, and hanging o
nto my sanity by a thread, but who the fuck cares about that, right? Hanging onto self-control with all I have.
“Okay.” Her voice is small. She doesn’t move, though. I expected her to grab the chance to go. “Do you need help with anything?”
“Nah, I’m good. Thanks.” God, she’s sweet. She shouldn’t. Can’t take her kindness. It reminds me of all I’ve ever wished for and never had. “Unless you wanna stay and watch crappy TV with me, maybe you should go and…” I wave a hand as I push myself upright, this time slow and careful, making sure my knee holds. “Do something more fun.”
“Okay,” she says again, turning her face away, and Christ, is she about to cry? Did I upset her again? I seem to be doing this a lot lately.
“Manon…” Dammit. I look around for my walking stick, then remember I left it at Damage, lost somewhere. Like my brain. “What did I say?”
“Nothing.” She doesn’t look at me. “I’ll show myself out.”
What the fuck. I honestly don’t get chicks sometimes. Not that I’ve had much experience with them anyway—except for fucking quick and dirty, but that hardly counts as interaction. The girls of the Brotherhood are nice, but I don’t see them all so often.
And even if I did, this… thing between me and Manon beats me. Are we buddies now? Should we shoot pool together and have beers? What is it about her that draws my gaze and tangles up my fucking thoughts? And let’s not talk about my constant hard-on when she’s near.
Man, trying to convince myself I can do this, stop wanting her, stop needing her, is an uphill battle, and I’m not sure I can win.
So I nod, turn around and leave the room.
Chapter Ten
Manon
The moment he’s out of the room, I bury my face in my hands. Stupid to feel so down because Fred wouldn’t kiss me, but it has been a sucky week. I’ve a right to feel low, right? I feel… confused. Sad.
Torn.
I don’t want to leave. Hard to deny my heart beats faster every time I’m near Seth.
Why do I like how strong he is, so much stronger than Fred? I shouldn’t be comparing them. Shouldn’t be thinking that Fred’s shoulders suddenly seem too narrow, his jaw too slender, that he seems too soft compared to the toughness radiating off Seth.
I shouldn’t wonder how Seth kisses, if sweet and slow, or hard and demanding. If he’d have kissed me, pushed me against the wall and held me there, pressed his body to mine if he’d been the one with me at the party.
Doesn’t matter. He wasn’t.
He’s not the one I want. I’m not picturing him in the shower, naked and—
No, I’m not.
Clenching my hands, I get up. I want Fred. I like the fact he’s slender and sweet, that I’m not afraid of him overpowering me, taking me against my will. That he’s so sensitive and careful. The confusion will clear when I’m out of here, far from Seth.
Can’t see my purse. I turn in a circle and spot it on the floor under the low table. I squat down to grab it and notice a crumbled piece of paper. I lift it, straighten it out on the table for Seth to find later.
It’s a photo, and the sight of it stops me as I prepare to stand up and go. The ink has faded to brown and yellow. It’s old and spent a long time folded, the creases so deep they’re about to tear open.
It’s the photo of two women and two boys. The women look like sisters, light-skinned and fair, and the boys look like brothers—dark hair and dark, exotic eyes. I’m pretty sure I know who they are. I smooth my fingertip over a small, smiling face, over familiar broad cheekbones and thick-lashed eyes.
A mother he’d thought dead for—how long? I wonder. How long was she missing? And what happened to him while she was gone? It’s hard to smooth out the wrinkles in the paper. The anger that made him crumble up something he’d obviously kept for a long time, a kind of talisman, a memory, makes my eyes sting.
Before I know it, I’m on my feet and looking for him. Can’t hear the shower running yet. I step into a tiny hallway. The bathroom door is open, and I halt before he sees me, my breath hitching.
Whoa.
He’s standing at the sink, a hand on his chest between his hard pecs, head bowed, dark hair hiding his eyes. But God, his back… Broad and muscular, covered in intricate ink—snakes, feathers, ladders, claws, demons—and matching ink on his chest, reflected in the mirror, spreading down his pecs, stretching over his padded shoulders.