Minutes pass. Hours. I’m covered in a sheen of sweat, breathless, exhilarated.
Dancing like this is almost like being free. Almost like being able to leave this house. Almost.
A throat clears, and I wobble on my shoes, barely catching myself from falling. I whirl, half expecting to see Luca. He’d make fun of me or pull my hair, but it’s not Luca standing behind me. Ivan leans against the brick interior wall.
My mouth goes dry. He isn’t wearing a shirt. The way his arms cross over his chest makes his muscles bulge. And God, those forearms. Blunt strength combined with precision. My gaze takes in the line of pale hair down his taut stomach. Black sweatpants hang low on his hips.
Jesus.
“Were you watching me?” I ask, even though he was. He’s not turning away or looking abashed like another man might. He’s just looking right at me, a bemused expression on his face.
“What was that?” He doesn’t sound accusatory. Just curious.
It takes me a second to realize what he means. “The dancing?”
“It’s different.”
Different than stripping. Different even than Honor’s ballet. A bastardization of both of them—both sexy and elegant, flashy and demure. “It’s burlesque. I’ve been practicing. Do you like it?”
I’ve been thinking we could start doing it at the Grand. It’s more suited to the space anyway. Still sexy. Just a little more…fun.
He is silent a moment. “I need this room.”
He doesn’t like it. My heart drops, but I try not to let it show. Blowing out a breath, I walk over to him, putting every ounce of sexy into my step. It’s strange being with him like this, sweaty and sultry while he is half-naked. Usually he is the one covered up by a suit.
“Maybe I’ll watch you,” I tell him.
He shakes his head. “Get some rest.”
My gaze drops to his chest. It’s magnificent…and heartbreaking. Up close I can see the scars again. Old cuts of unknown origin. The burns hurt me the worst. There’s a kind of careless malevolence in them, someone who wanted to make him hurt, who knew no one would ever see or ever care.
My finger touches a scar on his abs, and he tenses. My father left often, for long periods, drinking binges and gambling, shacking up with someone. It was always a relief when he was gone.
“Do they hurt?” I ask softly.
His voice is cold. “Does it matter?”
More than anything. “If you’re hurting, it matters to me.”
His eyes lock straight ahead of him. He’s looking at someplace above my head. No, he’s really looking into the past. So long ago. The scars are faded, but they’ll never go away.
“Did you ever see her again?” I ask softly. “Your grandmother?”
“She passed away while I was… A year after I left.”
The grief in his voice cuts like raw glass, that while he was enduring unspeakable things, his grandmother died. The jagged edges are sharp with resentment—that she had turned a blind eye to his father’s abuse, even that she had been unable to care for the wild boy he became. Resentment and love. Only love can hurt that deeply.
“Did you ever go back to her house?”
His eyes darken. “There’s nothing for me there.”
Her house, the land… it’s a beautiful place. Peaceful.
There’s no beauty for him? No peace?
“But—”
“Don’t ask me again.”
And the way he says it, it feels like a lash. As if there’s nothing for him there—or here, standing in front of him. As if my very presence here is an affront to him. No, less than that. An inconvenience. He’s punishing me for pushing him too hard, for making him feel too much.
The silence spins out, making the hair on the back of my neck rise. He doesn’t want me here. He doesn’t trust me. He won’t ever love me. My chest squeezes tight.
I step around him.
He grabs my arm. His eyes are still facing straight ahead. “Don’t mistake me for one of the girls at the club. I’m not going to tell you how I’m feeling or open my heart. There’s nothing left to open.”
My breath catches. “Then why don’t you let me go?”
His gaze flicks to me, as cold and cutting as a blade. His hand falls, and I immediately miss his bruising grip on my arm. Without another word, I walk up the stairs to the main floor, feeling his gaze on me the whole way.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ivan spends most of the next day at the Grand. Luca guards me at the house, under strict instructions not to let me out of his sight. I might fuck with him just for fun, but I’m too distracted. Too nervous about what is happening tomorrow. Ivan is getting an update from Blue and the police department on the investigation, but no matter what, Ivan is going to Harmony Hills tomorrow morning. He’s still not letting me go with him.
It’s the place where I was born. Where I spent the first sixteen years of my life. I’d once been content with never going back, but now that feels impossible. Something is calling me there. And I feel like I could watch over Ivan, protect him—as crazy as that sounds.
He has dealt with a lot of violent assholes over his lifetime, but there’s still something different about the self-righteous, religious, violent assholes like Leader Allen.
And most of all, I’d be able to see my mother again.
Would she even want to see me? I already know she wouldn’t be proud of me. Maybe she’d feel like her sacrifice was a waste, when she sees what I’ve become. Maybe it’s best that I’m not going back, so she doesn’t have to find out.
“Moved,” Luca says.
I scrunch my nose at him. “Did not.”
“The pink one,” he says, sounding smug. “It moved when you touched it with the green one.”
I study the colorful pile of sticks, trying to see where I could have messed up. I’d been so careful. Damn his sharp eyes. “You’re lying,” I say, pointing the thin pink stick at him. “This was nowhere near the green one.”
He rolls his eyes. “You always say that.”
“Because you’re always lying.” And because that’s kind of the point of the game. If we wanted a game with actual rules, we’d play Scrabble. Bickering is what makes Pick-Up Sticks fun.
“Fine,” he says. “Do it over again.”
“Fine.” I slide the pink one back where I got it from. Of course this moves the sticks around it, but that’s okay since I’m putting it back.
Luca studies the position. Then nudges the green stick so it’s on top of the pink one. “There.”
Oh no no no. “Excuse me? No. The green one was not like that when I started.”
“Yes, it was.” He pauses. “And that’s why you moved it.”
I open my mouth to object but a knock at the door startles us both. Luca has his gun out of its holster in two seconds flat. He shoves me behind the couch with a rough, “Stay here.”
My heart pounds as I stare at the carpet, imagining Luca silently stalking closer to the door and looking out the peephole. Whatever he sees must not have freaked him out too much, because the lock turns. Then the second lock. And then the third lock, because Ivan is a paranoid motherfucker.
Then the door opens. “What?” Luca asks, harsh enough that whoever it is stammers.
“Uh…there’s a package for a Ms…Candace Rosalie Toussaint. She has to sign for it.”
A shiver runs through me. It’s been years since I heard that name spoken aloud. And I know neither Luca nor Ivan have ever heard it, because I never told them. I peek around the edge of the sofa to see Luca’s body blocking the doorway. I can only see a little of the terrified-looking post-office deliveryman outside.
“I’m Candace,” Luca says coldly.
“Uh…” The delivery man fidgets. Facing off with an ex-mob enforcer really isn’t part of his job description, but he doesn’t look ready to hand over whatever it is.
With a sigh, I stand up. “I’m Candace.”