For some reason, I feel lonelier than usual. I think it’s because Devon could be here right now, but I’m the one who pulled away. It would be so easy to give in.
So easy. And selfish.
And to be honest, I'm hurt. I'm trying not to let it get to me, but I'm so damn hurt by what he did.
I pick up the pencils and open the sketchpad, and then make myself comfortable on the bed. Then I draw.
“Leighton,” I hear Devon say. I look up to see him standing right in front of me.
I put the pencil down. “Hey.”
“You didn’t even hear me come in,” he says, frowning.
“Sorry, I kind of get lost in the zone.”
“I can see that. I called your name twice before you looked up.”
“Thanks for the art supplies,” I say quietly.
His eyes soften. “You’re welcome. You didn’t eat much,” he says, looking at the donuts, disapproval etched on his face. I only ate one, and even that I forced down.
I shrug. “Not very hungry.”
He leans in closer to me, and I flinch when his finger touches my cheek. He instantly pulls it back, scowling.
“What, you seriously won't let me touch you now?” he asks, taking a seat next to me on the bed.
“It’s better if you don’t,” I reply, my voice sounding hollow.
“You don’t mean that.” His eyes bore into mine, studying me, making me squirm.
“Yeah, it’s exactly what I mean.” I stand up from the bed and move toward the chair where he usually sits, feeling trapped by his gaze all of a sudden.
“You’re so fucking stubborn,” he says under his breath.
“No one is forcing you to be here right now,” I say, my tone emotionless. Except, I don’t want him to go. Devon doesn’t reply. Instead, he lies on the bed with a frustrated growl.
“Come here, Leighton,” he says, staring at the ceiling.
“No.”
He repositions his body and lifts his head up, so he can see me. “Come here,” he repeats.
I ignore him.
“You telling me that you don’t want to come here and lie in my arms until I have to leave?” he says, his voice knowing. I do want that. I want that more than anything, but sometimes we don’t get what we want.
I should know. I've wanted him all my life, and he was someone else's.
“What changed since this morning?” he asks, sitting up.
“I had some time to think things through.” I make it sound harsh, angry. I sit down in his chair, staring across the room. “Where were you the other night?”
“What?”
“The other night, when you came home drunk. Who’s Amber?” I don’t know why I ask it. It will only hurt me more once he admits he left me to go and screw someone else’s brains out, but maybe it’s what I need to hear.
His eyes widen. “Fuck.”
“Just tell me.”
“Leighton,” he says softly, reverently, so much emotion in that one word. He rubs his face wearily, looking frustrated and tired. He mutters something under his breath and then stands up and walks toward me, a purpose to his stride.
He lowers to a crouch in front of me, as close as he can get without actually touching me.
“Nothing happened,” he says, his eyes roaming my face. He takes my hand in his. “Nothing happened.”
I look away. I don’t believe him.
He lowers his head and I close my eyes, shuddering when his lips make contact with my skin. His mouth lingers on my cheek, and I can feel his reluctance when he moves away.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asks, his eyes guarded. He already knows what I'll say. I almost want to prove him wrong.
I shake my head. He nods once, and leaves the room without looking back.
I stare at the door for a few minutes after he leaves, wanting him to come back, but needing him not to.
I bury myself into the chair, his chair, and let the tears put me to sleep.
ten
DEVON
I drop off her breakfast, and try to talk to her, but she ignores me. Hours later, when I bring her lunch, it’s the same thing again. She doesn't say anything to me at all, doesn't even spare me a glance. But at least she eats the food.
How much of a jerk was I, leaving her like that to go and see another woman? Even if I had done it, if I lost myself in Amber, it would never compare.
She's drawing, a lot. The first sketchpad is full, and when I first stole a glance at what she's been drawing, it caught me off guard. Why I deserve to be the focus of her drawings is beyond me. She shouldn’t waste her talent on me.
I'm the monster that brought her here. I'm the monster that's going to take everything away from her, until she's gone as well.
What the fuck was she doing in that parking lot, following George? She's not stupid; she should have known better.
My pocket beeps with a text message, snapping me out of my thoughts. I shift in the chair, pulling out my phone and glancing at it quickly to read Hayley’s message that she’s coming over tonight. My uncle clears his throat at the interruption, looking at me disapprovingly.
What is this, a fucking school? I'm so sick of this crap, the way he just silently disapproves of everything I do without actually telling me how much of a failure I am in his eyes.
I'm sitting in his office, discussing killing a whole family to prove I'm worthy enough. Sometimes I feel like I'm still that thirteen-year-old boy he picked up from the boarding school.
I never saw him much before that day. My dad never mentioned him, as if he didn't even exist, and I had better things to do than to ask. My mother used to travel a lot, always taking me with her, so it’s not like I even needed an uncle. Then the whole thing happened, and he appeared out of nowhere ready to claim his place as “the boss.”
Why did it never occur to me that he might have had a hand in what happened to my family? When I look at him, I don't see my uncle. I don't see my father's brother. I see a man of power, wanting more power. It's never enough.
“Devon,” he says, looking at me expectantly. When he sees he has my attention, he says, “Will you deal with George?”
“Yeah,” I answer, though I'd rather not be the one to talk to him. He just really pisses me off.
“Make sure to let him know how important it is he gives us the right info. We can't afford to make any mistakes right now.”
I nod, though I can't seem to ignore that this is all so convenient. Once the Moores are gone, we, or rather, he will get it all. Nothing to fight over. No more worrying if we're stepping on their turf. No one will speak up when he claims it.
But the proof doesn't lie. It was Keith who tried to hide the evidence of my parents' identities. And is my uncle really so power hungry that he'd kill his own brother? Why am I still alive, then? In theory, I'm the rightful heir.
I forget all about my suspicions later that day when I go to pick up a shipment. I pass one of their restaurants on the way there. I see Keith getting out of his car, surrounded by his men. Dominic Moore, his surrogate son, is standing beside him, all six feet of him, dressed in a fine suit, his dark hair slicked back. I hate the guy. He was always around Leighton, watching over her like a hawk.
Keith says something, slapping Dominic on the back, and he laughs, shaking his head. He looks back, and his bushy eyebrows knit together when he sees me, and then he nods at me. He fucking nods at me.
Dominic, to his credit, doesn’t acknowledge me, the way Keith shouldn’t have.
I nod back, though I have no respect for this man.
Hayley is already waiting for me in the library when I'm finally home. I'd say I dread this conversation, but I don't. I'm almost positive she's the one to blame for Leighton's behavior since yesterday morning.