Only now, I did so much more cautiously. Selectively. Lying became a justifiable means to an end, rather than a habit or something to take lightly. I lied when I felt it appropriate, and somehow, in my mind anyway, that made it all better.
“Telling the truth doesn’t come easy for me, Tate.”
“You’re doing perfectly.”
My heart swells, and I quickly swallow a lump that rises in my throat. For the first time in my life, I want to be brutally, painfully honest. I don’t want to even sugarcoat the truth or tell a white lie. I don’t want anything but truth between me and Tate.
“But if I tell you everything I know,” I say gently, thinking before I say each carefully-picked word, “I… could betray the confidence of someone I love.”
Without a word, he reaches for my waist. He slings me over his lap, so my knees fall on either side of him, and I’m facing him. I still have to look up to meet his eyes, those gorgeous shimmering blue, fragments of sapphire. He slings his fingers together behind my back. They settle there, with reassuring comfort, and even though I’m distraught, liquid heat races through me.
“Then let me make this easier on you.”
Easier on me? How? The only bloody way for him to make it easier for me would be to lay me out and—God, my mind.
I watch him warily, bringing myself back to the present, and nod.
“I’ll ask you yes or no questions. You can nod yes or shake your head no. I won’t ask you to tell me details, and you’ll give me just enough so I can figure out what I need to on my own.”
I hesitate, even while relief floods me.
When I don’t respond, I watch the muscles in his face tighten, and a shiver of fear coils in my belly. He may have a gentle side, but I must never forget how dangerous Tate Cowen truly is.
“Or,” he says, his voice hardening, “we can revisit punishment and interrogation, and I’ll get everything you know out of you and then some.”
“Tate…” My voice trails off, and I bite my lip.
He doesn’t reply, but holds my gaze, unblinking, and I know he means every word.
I sigh. “Right then. Okay. Let’s try it the easy way and see how that goes.”
He smiles, his eyes crinkling a bit around the edges, and it does funny little things to my heart. I stifle a sigh.
“Do you know things about the Welsh?”
Nod.
“Have you visited them?”
Nod.
He asks me a few more questions, obvious things, as if we’re warming up, and I’m just getting used to nodding yes when he throws me a zinger.
“Do you know anything to do with my immediate family involving the Welsh?”
I bite my lip, and he holds my gaze, his hands tightening ever so slightly on my lower back. I can almost see him tipping me over his lap or tying me up and punishing me, or worse, calling his brothers while they all take turns.
He tugs me closer to him. My pulse races.
“You smell good,” I whisper.
A corner of his lips quirks up.
“I didn’t ask you that,” he whispers back.
“I know, but they say it’s helpful to compliment people who threaten you. Supposedly makes them less likely to hurt you.”
“That so?”
“Oh, aye.”
A beat passes before he speaks again. “My sisters are your mates. Do you know anything that could endanger either one of them?”
I swallow hard.
I nod.
His brows draw together, and all humor leaves his face.
“Does it involve the Welsh?”
I hate myself for this, I hate myself for all of this.
I swallow and nod, and he curses under his breath.
“Does she have contact with any of the Welsh Clan?”
She’s been in touch with him for the past year, and though she hasn’t shared all the details of the contact, I know she’s come to have feelings for him. I know that he texts her, and once she even feigned a trip with mates and somehow managed to evade her bodyguards long enough to meet up with him.
She says he doesn’t know who she is.
Tate’s hands tighten on my waist.
“Fran.” The sound of his low voice saying my name sends shivers racing down my spine.
“Yes?”
“Answer the question. Does she have contact with the Welsh Clan?”
I don’t answer him at first.
There’s no going back from this. Not now, not ever. Islan will never forgive me.
He yanks me closer to him, my legs wrapped around his back while he holds me, and I swear when he talks, the timbre of his voice licks at my throbbing, aching need.
“Nod yes or no, Fran, or I’ll bend you over my knee and punish you until you do.”
He’ll bloody do it, and why does that make another thrum of need pulse in my belly?
Hot, fat tears fall down my cheeks as I give him what he demands and betray my best friend.