Shadow Storm (Shadow Riders 6)

Elie hesitated. Looked away from her. It was the first time she’d ever seen shame in his eyes. She didn’t like it and felt that particular expression didn’t belong on him.

“I love you, Emme. If I tell you, it doesn’t put me in a very good light. You’re going to think less of me. A hell of a lot less of me, and I deserve it. It isn’t like I have that many people in my life who do love me. I count on you.”

“We all do things we’re ashamed of, Elie,” she assured him. “Everyone. There isn’t a person on earth immune. We’d all like to think so, but we’re not. You don’t have to tell me, but I’m here. I just want you to know that. You’ve held it in a long time.”

He sighed. “You get a lot of pressure being a Ferraro. You have to be the best of the best and train all the time. Can you imagine what it’s like being an Archambault? We go from family member to family member even as toddlers. There’s a hierarchy within the family, and depending on your abilities—and you’re continually assessed—you’re sent to various families to train. They’re all extremely strict, very exacting.”

He stopped when Berta the waitress approached to take the empty pizza pan from the table. “Dessert?” she asked brightly.

Both nodded. “The usual,” Elie said.

“Same with drinks?” Berta asked.

“Yes,” Emme confirmed.

Berta went away happy.

“I never had a chance to know my father. I was one of the really promising Archambaults. I picked up everything fast. Languages, art, anything I studied, including how to kill. First time out. It didn’t matter what it was. That meant I was sent from one family to the next. I liked being in the shadows, and I liked learning. But it didn’t give me a feeling of home. It didn’t ground me.”

Elie rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked at her. “I was taught languages and how to kill. I was taught to ride shadows and keep maps in my head. I didn’t know the first thing about being in a family. Growing up as a teen, you can imagine how they encouraged me to be the best at what I did. Faster, stronger. Not one time did they ever mention family. Not even my own parents. My mother or father. I became arrogant and full of myself. You know how you get coming out of the shadows, coming off a job, so hot you just want to grab the nearest partner and fuck. Well, it was easy for me. I was good at that, too. Really good at it, and from a very young age. That made me more than arrogant in that department.”

Emme nodded. It was the truth. And she couldn’t see too many women turning Elie down. She rested her chin on the heel of her hand and looked at him across the table. His voice was low with self-loathing.

“I’m not exactly Mr. Nice in the sex department, either, Emme. Just so you know. All this was going on while my father had cancer. I didn’t know. The powers that be decided I shouldn’t be told. They asked my mother not to tell me, and she didn’t. I wasn’t even there when he died.” There was bitterness in his voice for the first time. “I was eighteen. They were still deciding my life for me, and I was still letting them.”

“Eighteen is a kid, Elie, and if you had been moved from family to family, of course you were letting them decide your life. You didn’t know any other way to live.”

“My mother needed me and I didn’t go to her.”

“You barely knew her.” Emmanuelle didn’t point out that his mother had allowed the Archambaults to take her baby from her and send him from family to family, never bringing him home. She guessed it was because his mother and father liked being alone together. If they visited their son occasionally, that was enough for them. Not all people were meant to have children, and riders were forced to. It didn’t always turn out for the best—at least not for the child. His mother hadn’t insisted her son come home to her after her husband had died, either—and she could have. Emmanuelle didn’t point that out, either.

“I spent another five years working and learning, riding the shadows and building my reputation,” Elie continued. “I built my reputation with women as well. I preferred models. Tall. Elegant. Long legs. Hot as hell.”

She’d seen the photographs. He’d been all over the magazines, escorting the top runway models in Paris. He’d broken hearts—a lot of hearts.

“I was called into Jean-Claude Archambault’s private home for a formal meeting. He was a member of the council. I was told it was time I settled down. There was a girl. A girl, Emme, eighteen fucking years old. A rider who couldn’t cut it. He actually said that. Too soft. But good genes. The best genes for producing riders. Good family. A virgin. He said that, too. He named her. Brielle Couture.” His voice softened when he said her name.