Brutus’s handsome face appears, framed by the gray sky, a grin tugging at his beard.
“You did not try to escape,” he says, shaking his head. His accent is light, warm. “Peighton, I have spent a week teaching you these ropes, and you are getting worse.”
He reaches in and lifts me as if I weigh nothing. My feet touch the gravel and he begins untying my wrists. “You should have kicked the trunk, undid your ropes, picked the lock. Anything.”
I shrug. “I was thinking.”
“About what?” he asks, amused.
I don’t answer. Because what I was thinking about has shoulders shaped like sin, eyes the color of a winter storm, and a mind full of darkness I don’t understand.
Instead, I push lightly at Brutus’ shoulder, playful and flustered. His muscle shifts beneath my palm, solid, warm, and familiar. Too familiar.
My breath catches.
Gustav. His sculpted arms. Those scars on his back, smooth, twisted, and strangely beautiful. The weight and heat of him over me. His black hair falling forward, shadowing his intense eyes. His devastating kiss. And God, his thick length buried deep as his muscled hips roll against mine.
I pull my hand back so fast I nearly spin. Too late. Brutus raises a brow.
“Where did you go?” he asks, snickering.
I stammer.
Ahead, my eyes squint.
Keira stands in the distance holding her phone. At first glance she’s texting. But the angle is wrong. Her stillness is wrong. She is either taking a photo or thinking very hard about taking one.
Heat rushes to my face. She looks up casually, offers a sunny smile, and pockets her phone as if nothing happened.
Suspicious. Very freaking suspicious. I haven’t had a smile from her in weeks, either.
I add space between me and Brutus.
That evening, Tyra shows up with her suitcases and her dramatic flair, and a piece of me unravels.
“Holy shit!” I exclaim, overjoyed.
Thank God.
She barrels into me with a hug, smelling like vanilla lotion and normalcy. Real normalcy. California normalcy. I didn’t know how badly I missed it.
“This place is amazing!” she gushes. “It’s like a fancy prep school for mobsters.”
I laugh. “Mobstersandtheir wives.”
Then I catch her up, including the maybe-photo Keira took.
Tyra presses two fingers to her temple. “Girl. Watch that woman like she’s trying to steal your Social Security number.”
“I am—”
“She is two-faced,” Tyra cuts in. “Beautiful women are either angels or villains. There is no in-between.”
Fair enough.
Then my phone buzzes. Dad. FaceTime.
I almost don’t answer, but Tyra pats my back. “Do it. He’s probably worried. He always talks about you when I visit. I am dating one of his enforcers.” She blushes, smitten.
