take much more of this.”
He gives me another squeeze and mercifully shuts up.
He holds me like that, cradling my head and rubbing slow circles over my back, until I can breathe easily again. Under my ear, his heart beats a slow, steady thump.
I whisper, “This isn’t right, what you’re doing. I’m a person, not a Kleenex.”
His hand on my back falls still. “I’m aware that you’re not a Kleenex. What the hell does that even mean?”
“It means that I have feelings. I’m not…” I suppress a sob. “I’m not something to be used and thrown away.”
His body is completely frozen for a few seconds. Except for his heart, which has started pounding, every part of him is still.
Then he rolls me onto my back, rises up on an elbow, and takes my face in his hand. His eyes blaze with emotion. His voice is urgent and rough.
“I swear to you, I’m not using you. What would possibly make you think that?”
My god. The man is an exquisite liar. Oh, now I remember: he said acting didn’t come until after he turned to a life of crime.
He should win a damn Oscar for this performance.
When I don’t answer him, he says, “Everything I’ve done and said til now, every single word I’ve spoken to you has been the truth.”
I groan, closing my eyes.
He grips my face more tightly, leans closer to my ear. “Every fucking word, Juliet. Goddammit. Where is this coming from?”
“Just go,” I whisper, miserable. “Please just try to find one tiny bit of decency inside you and leave me alone. Forever.”
He’s breathing hard, holding my face like he’s never going to release it. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell this is about.”
“No. Go!”
“Look at me.”
“No.”
He roars, “Stop fucking hiding!”
That does it. All my sad self-pity evaporates like two fingers snapping and is instantly replaced with thermonuclear rage.
I open my eyes and let him see every ounce of my fury.
But somehow my voice stays eerily, coldly calm.
“You’re the one who’s hiding, Killian Black. Liam Black. Whoever you are. You’re the one with secrets. You’re the one with an agenda here, not me.”
“What agenda?” he says angrily. “What are you talking about?”
I’m so frustrated by this farce that it just comes out. I shout it right into his face.
“I know you’re a narc, so you can cut the shit now, okay?”
He blinks. His brows draw together. Cocking his head, he stares at me in what looks like sincere confusion. “You think I’m a narcotics agent?”
“No! A narc, like a police informant! You made a deal to stay out of prison and now you’re on the cops’ payroll!”
After a beat of astonished silence, he starts to laugh.
He rolls off me and lies on his back, gripping his stomach and laughing heartily up at the ceiling like I’ve just told him the funniest joke in the world.
I jump off the bed and stand staring at him, my arms folded over my chest. “Admit it. You’re using me to get to my father.”
He laughs harder. His face is turning red.
I go into my closet, pick up the nearest shoe, then go back into the bedroom and throw it at him. It hits his tree trunk of a thigh. He ignores it. He’s too busy laughing.
I have to shout to make sure he can hear me over all the noise. “Keep it up and I’ll use your fat head for target practice, you jerk!”
He finally gets control of himself, sighing in pleasure and wiping his eyes. Then he rises from the bed, picks up his suit jacket from the floor, and slings it over his broad shoulders.
Smiling warmly at me, he says, “Thank you for that. I haven’t laughed like that in…” He pauses, thinking. “Ever.”
He crosses to me and kisses my forehead. With a finger crooked under my chin, he tilts my head up and looks into my angry eyes. His own are warm and soft.
“My offer still stands, lass: tell me you’re mine and mean it, and I’ll tell you everything. Until then, keep guessing. I can use the laughs.”
He turns around and walks out my bedroom door.
27
Jules
When I get up in the morning to use the toilet, the water in the bowl is red.
My period has arrived.
My initial reaction isn’t what I expected. I assumed I’d feel a huge wave of relief, like a weight had been lifted. That does come, but first there’s an uncertain pang of melancholy, a faint sense that I lost something