He’s still shaking his head, so vehemently I’m not sure who he’s trying to convince—me or himself. “You’ve been drinking.”
“One drink,” I say, kind of insulted. I may be new to this, but I’m not drunk.
“One drink is enough.”
“You had one drink too,” I point out, accusing.
He laughs, the sound unsteady and harsh. “I’m bigger than you.”
I don’t know if he means the drink affects him less or if it’s just another reason why the kiss was a bad idea—as if he might have overpowered me. But there is no reason why this is a bad idea. I’ve wanted him to kiss me forever. And judging by the way he kissed just now, he liked it too. Unless…
My voice is small. “Did I…do it wrong?”
He lets out a string of curse words. “No,
bella.
You did nothing wrong. This is me. I can’t touch you when you’ve been drinking. I can’t touch you at all.”
I
groan as
light batters my eyelids. There’s sound too. And something heavy pressing down on my head. I flutter my hand in the universal sign for
go away.
In case that wasn’t clear enough, I add, “Turn off the light.”
“That’s the sun, silly,” my sister says.
I peek one eye open and am totally blinded. If that’s the sun, we must be going through some kind of apocalypse, because it’s a hundred times brighter than I’ve ever seen it. And since when did she speak through a microphone? All I manage to do is whimper.
The bed dips as she sits down next to me. Her hand is cool and dry against my forehead. “Are you sick or something? You don’t look that great.”
“Thanks,” I say wryly and then wince as the word echoes through my head.
Last night comes back to me with a crash. The Jack Daniels. Then the
kiss.
Then rejection.
Then more Jack Daniels.
We finished the whole bottle while very pointedly not discussing kissing. “I’m not sick,” I tell her so at least she won’t worry. Even though I feel worse than when I had the flu. I hope a hangover doesn’t last for days.
“I’ll take your temperature,” she says, heading toward the bathroom connected to my room.
“No,” I protest. The thought of something beeping in my ear makes me cringe. I force myself to sit up, to prove I’m okay. “See? I’m fine.”
Honor is wearing a cream vintage blouse and black pencil skirt. She always looks so put together. I glance at the clock. Ten o’clock in the morning. Okay, I guess it’s not that early. Still, she looks classy and stylish at any hour of the day. Her expression is tight. Because of me?
“I’m fine,” I repeat.
The line of worry between her eyes fades, but her lips are still pressed together. There’s something about her expression that’s familiar. Then I realize… it’s pain. Real pain. Not the kind of throbbing ache I’m experiencing now, an ache I completely deserve. This is something else.
I stand and approach her.
“We’re meeting with the caterer in thirty minutes,” she says. She’s letting me sit in on the planning sessions so I can feel involved. The food, the cake. The fireworks.
Kind of crazy, having fireworks in the middle of a freaking drought. That’s the benefit of having the fire inspector in your pocket. Or Byron’s pocket.
Gently, I take her arm. I press the sheer fabric against her skin—and with the fabric taut, I can see. There they are, three bruises. “Did Byron do this to you?”
She pulls away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I roll my eyes. “Maybe that works on other people, but not me. I’m going to go punch him in the face.”
She looks alarmed, even though the punching thing is pretty unlikely. I’m not even tall enough. And he’d probably shoot me. I don’t mind telling him off, though. He can’t shoot me for that.
“Stay away from him,” she warns.
“Or what? He’ll grab me too? He probably hurts you other places, doesn’t he? Places I can’t even see.”
She shakes her head even though I know it’s true. She’s not even really denying it. She’s saying
leave it alone.
“Anything you do will just make it worse.”
I hate that she’s right about that. “Then we’ll talk to Daddy. He can make him stop.”
Pain flashes over Honor’s face. “He already knows.”
My eyes close. I’d been afraid of that. Afraid that Byron’s connections and money were worth seeing my sister hurt. Byron may be relatively new to the scene, but he’s ambitious. And like Brutus, an ambitious man is a dangerous one. He has money and connections. My father is old and growing weaker. The other factions could see it as an opportunity to take over. So he’s solidified his rule by grooming Byron to take over—and marrying his oldest daughter to him as insurance.
I swallow hard. Our father never took much interest in me, except in the worst way.
Probably the rumors are true and I’m not really his daughter. I don’t have the dark hair and olive skin that marks our family. I have strawberry-blonde hair and freckles. But he’s always been fond of Honor. If he is willing to sacrifice her to assure our position, he must really have been worried about a takeover.
“What can Byron even do for him?” I ask, half angry, half wondering.
Honor lifts one shoulder. “He has everyone intimidated. Judges. Drug suppliers. He’s working both sides.”
I stare at the place where the bruises are. I can’t see them when the fabric rests naturally away from her skin. I’m sure that’s on purpose. She must keep an inventory of where her bruises are and make sure they’re covered up. It makes me exhausted—and desperate.
“Then let’s go,” I say. We don’t need Gio to take us away. We can leave ourselves.
She frowns, her delicate eyebrows drawing together. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying let’s run away. Just you and me.” My throat goes tight as I imagine never seeing Gio again. And I tell her the same thing I told him, though my voice cracks this time. “It will be an adventure.”
Her head is shaking
no no no.
“They’d find us. There’s no way, Clara. Don’t even say the words.”
But I’ve already said them. And once they’re out, I can’t put them away. Not when I close my eyes and see the dark bluish imprint of Byron’s fingers. “We’ll find some way to hide. To go underground. It has to be better than this, than you getting hurt.”
“And what will we do for money?”
“I don’t know. Something. I don’t need all this.” I wave my hand to indicate the ornate antique furniture and expensive artwork. These aren’t things I chose for myself. They are part of the cage that keeps me here. Money and family and obligation. All of them bind me.
“It’s impossible,” she says, her voice wistful. “I thought of leaving once. I even had a plan. But…”
“But what?”
“But you’re still a minor, Clara. You couldn’t work. You couldn’t even be seen.”
My heart clenches. I would be a liability to her. “You could leave without me.”
Her eyes flare with something—memory? Betrayal? Our mother left us both. The official story is that she died in a car crash. But everyone knows she wasn’t allowed to drive. And the casket at her funeral was closed. If she did drive that day, she was leaving. And if she died that day, it means my father caught her.
“I will never leave you.” She says it like a vow—fierce.
My eyes grow hot with tears. “Me either,” I promise her. Even if Gio showed up, ready to take me away. Even if that girlish dream came true. I’d never leave without Honor. She’s my sister. I love her. And that’s why I can’t stand by and let Byron hurt her. There’s no fighting a man like that.
The only way to keep her safe is to take her away.
* * *
The next night
I creep across the grass. The bottoms of my feet feel extra sensitive when I do this. Maybe my sense of touch is heightened because of fear. Or because I’m about to see Gio. I can feel every blade of grass tickle my feet, every bump and dip in the earth. Even the night air becomes a tactile thing, blowing gently against my skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake.
When I reach the pool house, the door opens. “Clara,” he whispers.
I smile back, relieved. A part of me had worried that he wouldn’t come tonight. He’d seemed freaked out by the kiss. All through eating samples of pork forestiere and shrimp kabobs from the caterer, I’d been thinking about him. What was he eating? What was he thinking?
The pool house is dark, like always.
I slip inside and toss myself on the couch, like always.
He looks outside to make sure no one spotted me. Like always.
Then he shuts the door and makes his way over to me. This is different, though. He’s walking stiffly. Strangely. It stirs a memory in me. The way Honor sometimes walks when Byron has been rough with her.
I sit up. “Are you hurt?”
He doesn’t answer. He just sits down—slowly. Carefully.
“You
are
hurt,” I say, accusing. Then I’m up and by his side, hands hovering. I don’t want to touch whatever bruise he has and make it worse. “What happened?”
“It’s nothing.”
I shut my eyes. The only two people in my life I care about are being beaten, being abused, and I am helpless to stop it. “Your father?”
“Not this time.”
I kneel beside the armchair he’s in. “Who then?”
He sighs and leans his head all the way back. “Some assholes.”
I run my hands over his leg that’s closest to me—his thigh, his calf, his ankles. He doesn’t flinch or pull away, so I hope that means this side is okay. “Where does it hurt? I can get some ice.”
“No ice.” His voice has gone deeper.
A part of me, some deep and ancient part of me, knows it’s because my hands are on him. It makes me bolder. I move closer, between his legs now. “Or maybe some bandages? Did you have any cuts? You should put antibiotics in them so you don’t get an infection.”
His laugh is harsh. “No bandages,
bella.
”
God, his voice when he says that. I can almost forget he’s injured. I can almost forget he’s seventeen and I’m fifteen. I can forget that our fathers would kill us if they found us together.
“What then?” If I can make him feel better a different way, I will. I run my hands up his calves, his thighs—his hands grab my wrists, stopping me.
“No anything,” he says, his voice thick with pain. Or with something else.
I don’t fight his hold on my wrists. I let him keep me there. And I rest my head on his thigh. It’s not really meant to be seductive, even though I can feel the slope of his jeans. Even though I can see the bulge just inches away from my face. I know he’s not going to do anything dirty to me. I’d probably like it if he did, but he won’t. Just like he won’t kiss me again. But he doesn’t make me move away.
Instead he lets out an unsteady breath and releases my wrists. I remain there, kneeling in front of him, resting my cheek on his thigh.
His broad hand brushes over my temple, my cheek. He plays with the braid of my hair for a moment before resuming his gentle, rhythmic stroking. He’s not touching anywhere below my neck, but my whole body lights up with it, tense and languorous at the same time.
It’s a strange feeling, like being a beloved pet. An owned thing. Cared for. Cherished.
It’s somehow sweeter than being the unwanted bastard daughter.
“I shouldn’t let you come here,” he mutters.
“Don’t,” I say. I can’t bear when he talks like that, as if he might not show up one of these days. It’s a lifeline for me, a breath of air while I’m drowning. And if I run away with Honor, then each one of these visits could be my last. Tears spring to my eyes, dampening the denim of his jeans.
“Shh,” he soothes. “I won’t make you stop.”
He traces the line of my jaw and the curve of my ear. His blunt finger trails all the way down my neck.
“So pretty,” he says. “Do you know,
bella?
I hurt with it, how pretty you are.”
And then I’m hurting too, his words like whiskey. They will take getting used to. I need so much more.
“Byron is hurting her,” I whisper. Because it’s the only way I know how to tell him.
We’ll have to leave soon. I can’t let him keep hurting her.
His hand stills, and I think he must understand my secret message. “All the men hurt women here,” he says. His tone is so dark, so unlike him.
I look up at him. “Gio?”
His hand encircles my neck, forcing my chin up. He just rests his hand there, his palm flush against my skin. Not squeezing. Just holding. “Are you afraid of me?”
I tremble because of the pain in his expression, in his voice. I am afraid—for my sister, for him. I’m afraid I’ll break down and stay just so I can be near him, even if that means condemning my sister for life. But I’m not afraid that he’ll hurt me. “No.”
“You should be.” He leans forward and whispers in my ear. “I’ve done things you couldn’t imagine.”
A tear slides down my cheek. Whatever these things are, they cause him pain. I see it in him. I feel it. And he has no choice—no more than Honor has a choice.
“You’d never hurt me,” I say. My voice is wobbling because I’m hurting for him. But I mean every word. It’s not the first time he’s tried to scare me away. I’m not afraid of him.
The anger I feel in him slides away, replaced by something else. Desire.
His eyes are almost glowing in the moonlight streaming through the window. He removes his hand from my neck. His thumb brushes over my lips, back and forth. Back and forth.
My breath catches. Without even thinking, my lips part.
Then the tip of his thumb is pressing inside my mouth. He gently nudges my lips further apart. I don’t understand all that’s happening, don’t know everything he wants, but I know how to take his lead. This is just like kissing, except instead of his lips and his tongue, it’s his thumb.
He presses until his thumb is half in my mouth, and then it’s only natural to close my lips and suck gently. He makes a soft sound, like a grunt. It sounds like need. Like relief.
The texture of his thumb is rough on my tongue. I slide it against him. He makes a hissing sound and shifts his hips. I never realized my tongue has this much power. Just a flick and the large frame of him tightens.