The door creaks open slowly, and Izzy peeks her head around the corner, her wide eyes cautious, her smile unsure—like she’s waiting for me to scold her.
I lift a hand, motioning her inside. She steps in and settles into the chair across from me, her bare legs curling beneath her. She’s wearing one of my shirts, oversized on her frame, the buttons left undone just enough to tease at the curve of her breasts. Her golden hair tumbles in soft waves over her shoulders, catching the dim light like spun honey.
She’s so beautiful it’s almost painful.
I should have some clothes sent up for her. But damn it, she looks so much better in mine.
“You okay?” I ask when the silence between us stretches too thin, scratching at the edges of my patience.
“Yeah.” She nods, tapping her fingers idly against my desk. “Just bored.” Her gaze flicks to my screen. “What are you doing?”
I hesitate, debating whether to tell her the truth. But I’ll need her to identify the rest of her attackers eventually, so there’s nopoint in lying.
“Looking up Lucas’s known associates.”
She blinks, surprised. “For me?”
My jaw tightens. “I’m going to kill every last one of them.”
I brace for her reaction—for fear, for hesitation, for the moment she realizes the kind of man I’ve become. But she doesn’t cower. She doesn’t even flinch. Instead, she smiles, like my answer satisfies something deep inside her.
“I want to be there when you do,” she says, and the venom in her voice almost makesmeflinch. It doesn’t surprise me, but it unsettles me all the same.
“You’re not going to talk me out of it?”
She lets out a humorless laugh. “Talk you out of killing the men who raped me? Who beat me until I couldn’t stand? No, Enzo, I don’t think I will.” Her voice is razor-sharp, edged with a coldness that wasn’t there before.
She’s still light and warmth most of the time. But right now, in this moment, I see something else—something darker. And I’m reminded of just how much I don’t know about her anymore.
11
Weak And Useless
Catrina asked about you in class today. I told her you were becoming important in America. I hope that’s true. —Miss you still, Iz
Izzy
Twoweeksoflivingwith Enzo fly by. I feel stronger every day, more myself. Our friendship seems to have picked up from when we were kids, slipping easily into the comfortable relationship we always had.
“Someone set up a meeting, and they won’t speak to anyone but me. I have to go to the club again tonight,” Enzo tells me at dinner. From the way he speaks, it’s clear he’s unhappy.
“Can I come?” I ask, before I can think better of it.
Enzo’s eyebrows shoot upward, and his face contorts into worry. “Is that wise?”
It’s not lost on me that he hasn’t said no.
“Probably not,” I shrug, “but how am I supposed to get better if I don’t go out?”
“And Lucas?”
The name is like a slap to the face, and I almost flinch, but I force it back. “What’s the likelihood of him turning up at your club?”
Enzo scoffs. “None.”
I quirk an eyebrow.
He studies me then sighs. “Fine, if you think you can handle it.”
