“Well, you’d better before dinner. Because if she has something to say about it with both families watching, it’ll be a bloodbath.” He pauses, studying me too closely. “And Cav?”
“Yeah?”
“Try not to cock this up. We need this alliance.”
He walks away before I can respond. I stare out at the dark garden, my jaw clenched.
Right. The alliance, family, trade routes. That’s what this is about.
Not the way her hand felt in mine at the graveyard—small and cold and right. Not the way she smells like roses. Not the way something in my chest settled when I pulled her against my side, and she didn’t pull away.
When her fingers curled into my coat like I was the only solid thing in the world. Not the way I wanted to keep her there. Safe.Mine.
How can I hate the woman and still feel murderous at the thought of her being anyone else’s? How can I hate her and still feel likemineis the only name she should ever say?
None of that matters.
I push off the railing and head back inside, flexing my hands to get rid of the phantom feeling of her waist under my palm.
Time to face the truth. She’s going to look at me with those sharp eyes and realize I’m exactly the bastard she always thought I was. That this whole thing—the tour, the vulnerability, the moment on the balcony—was just leading to a trap. She’s going to hate me even more after this.
And somehow, that thought bothers me more than it should. Because part of me, the part that’s still standing on that balcony in the cold with her, doesn’t want her to hate me at all. Part of me wants the opposite, and that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
Chapter Seven
Erin
I’m still catchingmy breath when Cavin comes back inside. He moves differently now—shoulders tense, jaw set, like he’s steeling himself for battle. I see the shadow of his oldest brother walk down the hallway and wonder what they talked about.
“Come on,” he says. His voice has lost the softer edge from earlier, when he let his guard down, probably without meaning to. “One more thing before dinner.”
He doesn’t wait to see if I follow. I trail after him through narrow hallways, watching the way his shoulders fill the doorway, the way his hand grips the banister as we climb the stairs.
I don’t want to notice these things, but my traitorous eyes keep cataloging details: the ink that disappears under his collar. The flex of muscle in his forearms when he shoves a door open. The way his jaw tightens when he looks back to make sure I’m still there. Need to report back to Bridget, don’tI?
“Is that why you used to sneak behind the school?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Because you didn’t want to be indoors?”
He stops, then turns. The look he gives me could strip paint. “You don't want to admit it, do you? What you did. How you made my life hell.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “What?”
His mouth curls into something cruel. “I’m not who I was at St. Albert’s, Erin. And neither are you.” He tilts his head, steps closer, and his tone grows sharper. “Or are you? Still gonna run tattling? Still gonna act like you’re too good to breathe the same air as the rest of us?”
His voice is venom, but he’s closer now. So close I can count his eyelashes. See the scar through his eyebrow. Smell the whiskey on his breath.
So close that if I leaned forward an inch, our mouths would touch.
The thought makes heat flood between my legs, even as my cheeks flame.
No. Absolutely not.
“I’m not perfect,” I mutter, hating how my voice shakes. Hating how my fingers itch to tap. Hating how my body doesn’t know if it wants to run from him… or toward him.
“Aye… you thought you were, back then. Didn’t you?” His smile sharpens, his voice low and ragged. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you got me into?”
My heart slams against my ribs.
“How many beatings I took because of you? How many times I faced my da’s belt?”
