by Skye Warren
“It’s under control,” I say, my voice light.
“Is it?” Liam presses a few keys on his computer. “I’m looking at these reports you got from intel. Weapons smuggling. Human trafficking. Drug running. This guy isn’t playing around. I’m not sure a two man team is enough.”
“He’s probably not the perp.”
“Caleb Lewis?”
“No one.”
Quiet over the line. Both men regard me with similar expressions of subtle disbelief. There’s no way I’m fooling them, but I’m not about to open up my emotions, either. We had that shit beat out of us early. “You ever wonder what would’ve happened if we’d gotten together and killed that motherfucker?”
Neither of them have to ask who I’m talking about. There’s only one motherfucker we would have wanted to kill. Our father lived to terrorize us until the very last of us left. He was strong and merciless, but there were three of us. Even scrawny and half-starved we could’ve killed him—the way Caleb did his father.
Liam looks away from the camera. A muscle moves in his jaw. “Been thinking about him lately. You know that shit runs in families? Like green eyes or brown hair. Genetics or some shit. They’ve done papers on it.”
“You’re not gonna be like him,” Elijah says, his voice low and fierce.
I snort. “Samantha would probably kill you if you were.”
We all go quiet at that, remembering a mother who stood up for us only to get beaten back down. It happened one too many times.
One day, she wasn’t there anymore. Liam and I got home from school, and Elijah was in the house, only three years old, sitting at the kitchen table. Alone. I walked into the house two seconds before Liam, and I’ll never forget the way those wide green eyes blinked up at me. He wasn’t crying. Even then, he knew no one would be there to answer him. We never saw her after that day. Further proof that Liam will make an amazing father. He took care of me and Elijah until the day he enlisted.
Liam runs a hand over his face. “She has us seeing some shrink who says a lot of new age shit about manifesting our future, but I don’t know what wishful thinking has ever done. There’s only guns and knives, and neither of those help with a diaper.”
“There’s violins,” I say, because my brother looks seriously distraught. “We all choose our weapons. And yeah, none of that shit is gonna help with a diaper. You’re gonna figure that out on your own, and you’ll do great, and when you don’t do great, you’ll pass off the little runt to Uncle Joshua.”
Liam grunts. “No way you’re coming near him.”
“Is it a boy?” Elijah asks.
“Nah, we don’t know yet. I’m just trying to manifest it, because what the hell would I know about a girl?”
“You literally raised one,” I say, not even trying to hide my amusement. He got custody of Samantha Brooks, the prodigy violinist, when she was only twelve years old. Not a baby, sure, but he bought plenty of pink shit.
He frowns at me, because he still has guilt about fucking her when she was all grown up. Good thing Samantha has them going to that shrink. “If the new age shit doesn’t work I’ll just pummel some sense into you.”
“Get in line,” Elijah says, because he grew up bigger and meaner than both of us. He really could pound us into the concrete. Not that he’d need to. Liam took care of me and Elijah and Samantha. He’ll carry the whole fucking world on his shoulders. Of course he’ll take care of this little infant. The bigger question is whether he’ll give himself even a moment to actually enjoy the experience. Probably not.
The door to my office opens, and I swing around.
Noah’s holding a manila envelope like it’s an IED primed to go off.
“I’m out,” I say to the mic before clicking off the call. The expression Noah wears makes my heart pound. Liam can wait. He’ll probably call me back in thirty seconds, pissed that I cut him off, but I don’t care. “What is it?”
He steps closer and hands the folder over. “The results from the analysis lab.”
I have the envelope torn open before he finishes the sentence. The fucking flower. If we’re going to find the bastard, we need to know where the flower came from. It’s much harder to trace paper these days, with copy shops on every corner. You can have a document printed from anywhere in the world, to any UPS store, and all that’s left is a cold digital trail.
The information I need is right there. Black-and-white. “They found it.”
Noah leans in. “Where?”
“Edge of the Garden District.” The name of the shop isn’t as important as the interview. I’ve used this private investigator before, and she does her due diligence. It’s why I’m willing to pay her high fees. She identified the type of tulip and interviewed florist shops until she found the right one.
I flip through the pages and drink in the transcript from the phone call. “‘I remember this guy,’” I read aloud. “‘He had a scar in his hair. Dark hair, but the scar I remember.’” Noah and I lock eyes over the desk. There’s only one person I know with a scar running through his hair in a way distinctive enough for the owner of a flower shop to mention it twice. Coincidence? Not fucking likely. “Connor.”
Fuck. The past is coming back to haunt her. To haunt us.
Noah folds his hands in front of him. He looks pissed off. A scary motherfucker. That’s why I like him in my goddamn corner. “Want me to tell her?”
“No.” This is my responsibility. It’s been my responsibility from the first day I saw Bethany dancing in that warehouse. No matter what happens, even if she’s an ocean away, her safety will always be my responsibility. “I’ll go.”
I know where I’ll find her at this time of day. Dancing, of course.
She uses my personal gym, which is on the second floor of the house. It was actually a ballroom when I bought the place, as if I might host a goddamn soiree. I laid down mats wall to wall and moved in my weights, my treadmill, my equipment.
When Bethany moved in, I had one side of the large, airy space cleared out so she could have room to stretch her legs. The old ballroom floor is actually perfect for dance. It keeps her from visiting the theater late at night to practice, so it’s purely a practical move. I tell myself it has nothing to do with imagining her staying here long after the threat is gone.
Bethany has music playing from the overhead speakers, filling the space while she moves. Only half the lights shine onto the glossy mats. The shadows she casts are a sensual partner to her jumps and twirls. Mirrors on the wall reflect her beautiful body. She looks…free. And what I’m about to tell her will change that. It will cage her. Fear makes bars stronger than iron or steel. That’s the real reason why we never got together and killed our father. Because we were afraid of what would happen if we failed. Afraid of what would happen if we succeeded. That’s one thing Caleb has never had—fear. The same thing that made him a traitor allowed him to protect his sister.
Fuck, I hate this. There’s no good way to break this news. It’s one thing to be stalked by a crazy stranger. Another to be stalked by someone you know. Connor isn’t likely to be deterred by anything short of superior firepower. Maybe not even that.
A burst of music. She sinks to the floor into a split, then spins on the floor, bouncing right up again, thrusting her fists into the air. This is a new routine she’s practicing. It looks like she nailed it.
The song plays its final melancholy notes. Silence.
Only then do I step over the threshold. It seems better than cutting her off in the middle of the song. Her eyes are closed. She looks blissed out by the movement, and I hate that there’s a reason for her to be afraid. Don’t fucking ruin it. I can leave as quietly as I came, and she’ll never know I was here.
“Josh?”
So much for that. “I don’t want to interrupt you.”
“I’m done.” She’s glowing, a smile on her face, brown skin glistening. “That was my final run-through for the night. I got it. It’s in my bones now.” She hold
s her wrists out in front of her and twists them, first one way, then the other. “What did you think?”
You look goddamn magnificent. “Looks different than what you do in the theater.”
She shrugs. “That’s Landon’s stuff. Not mine.”
“Why don’t you do that stuff onstage?”
A smile flickers across her full lips. “Maybe. Someday. For now it’s enough to dance when I’m alone. And maybe for you to watch, too.”
This breaks my heart—this version of Bethany. I recognize it for what it is. The version of her that exists in relative safety. A safety I’m about to crush under my heel. “We got information about that flower.”
Her smile fades. A light dims. “What about it?”
I cross the gym with quick strides, my footsteps echoing against the pristine white walls. This is my only time for rehearsal, and I still don’t have the perfect lines straight by the time I reach her. I dive in anyway. What else can I do? “The lab was able to trace the flower from your locker to a shop in the Garden District.”
She laughs, a joyless sound. “Of course it’s from the Garden District.” She can’t follow through with the joke, can’t pretend to be casual about this. Her breath catches on a sob she won’t let me see. “Was that it, then? A dead end?”
“No, we got more. The owner was able to give a description of the buyer.” Dread makes me hesitate, but only for an instant. “We don’t have a positive ID, but based on the physical description—it sounds like Connor.”
Her face falls, and she takes in three rapid breaths and turns away from me. Bethany, ever the dancer, angles herself so that her face is partially obscured from the mirrors on the opposite wall. Her whole life is built on a performance. I want the Bethany who’s backstage. I want the one she doesn’t show other people, but right now I only have the stage. She’s projecting an image; it’s all I deserve.
This is where I should leave it. She has all the information I have to give. I should go. Leave her the fuck alone.
That stubborn humanity at the center of me, the one I’ve tried to stamp out again and again, forces its way to the front of my mind. I tried to make myself less than human. A robot. A killing machine. It didn’t work. I’m still a man. And I still want to comfort her. Without sex. Without all the entanglements that would squeeze the air from our lives. I just need a gesture. Something that will let me hold back.
I need to hold back for both our sakes.
The air in the studio sings with my own anticipation, a crescendo of my own making. It’s a goddamn stampede, crashing louder and louder. I take the last step forward. We’re almost touching—almost, almost—and then we are. I fold my arms around Bethany from behind, gathering her to my chest.
She melts against me instantly, her head falling back to my shoulder. Jesus, I want her. The scent of her hair is intoxicating. I’ll never get over it. I’ll never breathe enough of her. This body of mine, it’s weak. I have to master the desire. I have to ignore the deep cravings surging through my blood. It multiplies with every second until there’s too much to contain. Breathe it out. I have to breathe it out. This is about Bethany, not about what my body wants from hers. Stop being such a fucking asshole.
Bethany turns in my arms.
For a moment I see her at age sixteen, moonlight glinting off the tears on her cheeks. A single blink clears my vision. It’s still her face. It’s still heartbreakingly beautiful. Her heart is still there in her eyes, even after all these years. It’s there for me. How have I ever resisted her? There’s no one but her.
And I’m lost. I’m utterly fucking lost.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Break dancing originated in New York City during the late 1960s and early 1970s from martial arts moves developed by street gangs. The moves, originally learned as a form of self-defense against other gangs, eventually evolved into the stylized moves that emphasize energy, creativity, and an element of danger.
Bethany, present time
When I dance someone else’s steps, I’m giving my body to their vision.
It’s a powerful experience. Joyful and exhilarating, but it doesn’t compare to dancing my own dreams. Maybe if Josh had come to me when I was practicing the steps for Landon’s new idea, this wouldn’t have happened.
Maybe if I still worried about Josh using me for my body, I could resist him.
I’m standing here in a leotard and tights, but my heart is completely naked. It’s been stripped bare by dance and by fear. There are no walls with which to guard me. As I look into Josh’s green eyes, I’m not sure why I ever wanted those walls.
Dance doesn’t only happen in one direction. It’s a give-and-take. A two-way street. Something that I perform. Something that he receives. In this moment his heart is in his emerald eyes. He’s been stripped bare by the dance and the fear, too.
“Josh,” I whisper.
He shakes his head as if breaking a trance. “You don’t want to do this.”
That makes me smile. “How do you know?”
“I know.” He doesn’t smile back.
His gaze is hard and dark. What I see there makes me shiver. He wants me. Was that ever a question? He’s always wanted my body. A lot of men watch me that way. There’s something else. A raw need that it doesn’t seem like one person could soothe.
“Because I’ll expect too much?” I ask, facing him head on. “Because I’ll think you love me. Because I’ll think I love you. Because I’ll expect a happily ever after?”
“Because I’ll hurt you.” His voice is flat, without any hint of smugness.
Without any apology.
What would it be like to go through life believing you were a weapon, incapable of doing anything but hurting the people who get close? There’s a certain kind of hollowness, knowing that men only want to use my body for pleasure.
What would it be like to believe you can only cause pain?
I’ll never convince him otherwise. I’m not even sure he’s wrong. Whatever’s happening between us—it will break my heart. It’s already breaking. I lift his hand, shocked at how even this part of him is heavy with muscle. I press his palm flat against my chest, in the place between my breasts. Standing far away, he could be an ordinary-sized man. Like this, it’s clear how large he is. How powerful. His thumb rests against one breast. His pinky finger against the other. My heart beats erratically beneath the weight. “Then hurt me.”
He stares at me, the conflict plain in his gaze. There are a thousand battles fought in the span of seconds. I should probably give him time to consider the consequences. Instead I lick my lips. It isn’t something conscious. It’s as if my body is preparing itself for sex, as if it knows what this will feel like even if my mind does not. An ambush. The war is over.
He lifts his hand to my mouth, tracking the path of my tongue. It’s wet and crude and somehow sweet at the same time. Scars on his fingertips drag along my lips, the way mountains jut into the sky. He’s the jagged line; I’m the endless blue.
“I’m going to kiss you here,” he says, his voice almost conversational. He could be giving me instructions for our security detail. This could be routine. “I’m going to fuck you here, too. There’s no part of this body I won’t touch and bend and use. Understand?”
Wrong. He shouldn’t be talking to me this way, and I definitely shouldn’t like it. My whole life I’ve been fighting against the idea that men can use my body. I’ve been kicking and screaming against society’s demands—only to discover they turn me on. Well, not any man. Not every man. Joshua North. When he says those words, they turn me on.
“What if I say no?” The question comes out coy, and I’m not even sure how I want him to answer—as the man who’s protecting me or as the asshole I’ve always wanted.
“Then I stop.” The corner of his mouth turns up. It’s a smile without humor, without doubt. “You aren’t going to want me to stop. Not until I’m through with you.”
A clench between my legs. “You’re pretty
confident.”
“I fuck the way I do everything else. Mean. You come when I say so.” Heavy lids hood those green eyes, making him look sinister, underscoring his words. “We stop, you don’t get to come.”
I should want someone like Landon, someone who has the same interests as me, someone who understands the life of a dancer. I should like any one of the men who come to my performances, who look at me like I’m a figurine in a music box. They would never talk to me this way. And I would never feel this pulsing, aching sense of being alive.
“Prove it,” I say, lifting my chin away from his touch.
Half of me braces for impact, as if he might rip the leotard off my body, as if he might slam me into the mats. He has more patience than I gave him credit for. More strategy.
He smiles. “Say no, Bethany.”
He traces the line of my cheek with his forefinger. Sensation suffuses my body. His finger is a heat source, and my body is pure metal. I’m conducting everything he gives me. There’s complete concentration as he draws his finger down to my jaw—and lower, lower, to the tendon in my neck. He takes his time. So much time, as if this is the only thing he ever wanted to do to me, as if his finger pad on my pulse point is the culmination of our entire sexual encounter.
I understand now why I’d never say no—because I’m desperate for more. “Yes,” I whisper.
The back of his hand brushes over my breast, back and forth, back and forth, until my nipple hardens, until it shoves against the fabric, small and sharp. He squeezes the tip, making me moan. Harder. Harder. Hard enough that I let out a squeak of protest. Then he does let me go, and the feeling is enough to make me light-headed. It doesn’t feel good, exactly. This isn’t chocolate milk. It’s a shot of whiskey that burns down my throat and warms low in my belly.
“Should I?” I tug at the shoulder strap of my leotard, ready to take it off. The stretchy fabric has held me like a second skin through hours of practice and performance—suddenly it feels like it’s made of horsehair. Scratchy. Tight. I want it off my body, so he can touch me, the real me.
