Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,97
for the death of his cousin. And he’s not exactly wrong.”
“Did you find him today?”
“No. I found where he was staying. Found his little stalker journal. But then the whole place, uh, sort of blew up.”
“WHAT!?”
Dante winces. I know this is exactly the kind of thing he doesn’t want to tell me. But, unlike me, he’s never shied away from the truth about who he is, and what he does.
“Are you okay?” I ask him, trying to recover my calm.
“Yes. Completely okay.”
That probably wasn’t true, but he’s trying to make me feel better. My heart is going a million miles a minute. This isn’t how I expected to start our conversation.
“Anyway,” Dante says, “I can tell you all about it over dinner.”
“Actually—” I swallow hard. “Maybe we could just . . . go for a walk or something.”
I don’t want to be around other people for this. I don’t want anyone to overhear us.
“Oh . . . sure,” Dante says. “There’s a park about a block down the street . . .”
“Perfect.”
“I’ll pull the car over here.”
He parks alongside the curb, then we climb back out again.
I’m not really dressed for walking. God, I really didn’t think this through. I’m wearing strappy sandals and a black cocktail dress with a light blazer over top. The air is chilly now that the sun has gone down. I wrap my arms around myself, shivering a little.
“Hold on,” Dante says. He jogs back to the car, grabs his leather jacket out of the backseat, and puts it around my shoulders. “Better?” he says.
“Yes,” I nod, miserably. I don’t want Dante to be kind to me right now. I can’t stand it.
He can sense my nerves. He can tell something’s wrong. As we turn into the park, he says, “So what did you want to talk about? Is it about your job? Because I could—”
“No,” I interrupt him. “It’s not that.”
“What, then?”
His huge frame walks heavily alongside me, each step audible on the paved path. I can feel his body heat even through the leather jacket wrapped round my shoulders. When I glance over at him, his black eyes are fixed on me with surprising gentleness.
I can’t do it.
But I have to do it.
“Dante,” I say, my voice shaking. “I love you . . .”
No, that’s wrong, I can’t start like that. It’s manipulative.
He’s about to respond in kind, but I cut him off.
“No, wait, just listen—I’ve done something. Something awful.”
He’s watching me. Waiting. He thinks that whatever I’ve done, it doesn’t matter. He’s probably picturing violence or theft or betrayal, something he’s familiar with from his world. Something he would perceive as forgivable.
As always happens when I’m stressed, my senses become heightened. I can smell his cologne, his aftershave, his soap and deodorant, even the pomade in his hair. Under that, his skin and his breath, and that hint of raw testosterone he produces in excess of a normal man. These scents don’t clash—they blend together to make, what to me, is the epitome of masculine fragrance.
Besides that, I smell the dry, smoky scent of the crushed leaves under our feet. The raw pine sap in the air, and the car exhaust from the roads surrounding the park. Even the slight tang of lake water.
I feel the cool breeze on my face, the loose curls dancing around my cheeks, and the leather jacket heavy on my shoulders.
I hear the noise of traffic, of other people walking and talking in the park, though none very close to us, and the leaves crunching as we walk, and Dante’s heavy tread.
All those things become a jumble in my brain, making it hard for me to think. I have to dissociate so I can get through this. I feel like I’m watching myself walk down the path. I feel like I’m hearing my voice speak, without any control over the words coming out of my mouth:
“When I left nine years ago . . . it’s because I was pregnant,” I say.
The words come tumbling out, so quick that they slur together.
Dante falls utterly silent. Either because he doesn’t quite understand me, or because he’s in shock.
I can’t look at him. I have to keep my eyes on the pavement, so I can finish what I have to say.
“I had the baby in London. Your baby. That was Henry. He’s not my sister’s—he never was. She helped me raise him. But he’s your son.”
Now I steal a glance at him.
The expression on his face is horrifying. It strangles