“Apologize,” I tell him.
“What—”
I turn his wrist another degree. The joint protests. He lets out a strangled scream he’ll remember every time it rains.
“Apologize to Ms. Quinn for touching her without permission.”
“I’m—sorry—Jesus?—”
I let him go. He cradles the wrist and tries to breathe through the lesson.
No one else moves. Domenic is stoic in his overpriced coat. The other two are recalculating the situation. Remembering why Silas wanted me gone and why he dragged me back.
“We done?” I ask.
“For now,” Domenic says, smoothing his lapel like this is a minor wardrobe inconvenience. “But Blake…generosity has an expiration date. Second chances aren’t Silas’s style.”
“Good thing I don’t need one.”
He starts to leave, pausing long enough to aim a courteous look at Peyton. “Your father is looking for you, Ms. Quinn. Wouldn’t want him to worry.”
He disappears with his dogs. The kid hugs his wrist and throws me a hard promise with his eyes that he can’t keep.
Silence returns to the terrace, stitched with music from inside and the whisper of snowfall. One thing about Wintervale that hasn’t changed is that it’s always been a beautiful place. The best-kept secret of New York State. People have no fucking idea.
I turn to Peyton.
She hasn’t flinched. Hasn’t screamed. Hasn’t become some sort of damsel in distress who needs smelling salts because I made a man damn near cry on the terrace.
Interesting.
She studies me—curious, measuring, something like approval tucked inside the caution. It’s a dangerous mix.
“You broke his wrist,” she says.
“Eh, I sprained it or maybe a hairline fracture,” I say casually.
“That’s not an answer.”
“You didn’t ask a question.”
“I’m asking now.” She closes the distance I left for her protection. “Who are you really, Blake Delano? And why did those men look at you like you’re either their salvation or their executioner?”
I could lie. I was raised by liars who call it diplomacy. But she watches me like she’s heard lies all her life, and she’s tired of being insulted with them.
So I give her something true.
“Six years ago, I walked away from my family because they were running girls through a south side warehouse. I burned that shit down, and a man died. Silas Delano, my uncle, sent those men tonight. He’s also the one who ordered me to protect you.”
Her face barely shifts. “Why me?”
“Because someone wants to use you as leverage. Dead or alive. Signed or silenced. My job is to make sure neither happens until Silas decides what you’re worth.”
“Silas decides?” She shifts her weight carefully on her stiletto heels. “And what do you think I’m worth?”
I try not to stare at her perfectly fuckable mouth covered in red lipstick as she asks the question.
“More than they’re offering to pay me,” I say.
