Dallas’s eyes dart to the side, and I know I’m right.
“He was, wasn’t he? My husband was the man I was with the night before. And then, the next morning?—”
“He pushed you,” Dallas bites out. “Is that what you want to hear, baby? That the man you married instead ofmedecidedyou were a liability and, just like every cruel fucker in the Order, he wasn’t going to do divorce. Oh, no. Lucy was going to have an accident, and when she jumped, everyone would call it a suicide. Only you didn’t die. Thank fucking God, you didn’t, but you forgot everything, and maybe that was a blessing because then… I couldbeyour husband. The one you need. The one youdeserve.”
He never moved. He never rose his voice as he broke. He just stood in place, staring at me, his eyes pleading while his hands form fists at his side.
And I sit there, stunned, staring back at him.
Well, Dr. Brannigan was right in one regard. Don’t ask questions unless you want the answer…
In an instant, my mind flashes?—
There’s an open window, a cool morning breeze, and a silhouette. A rough voice in my ear. An even rougher hand on my arm. A feeling of disgust warring with determination as I hold my phone in my hand, telling him that I’m not waiting anymore, that I’ve dialed the number, that I’m calling?—
I lean forward, blocking out the vision that—like my nightmares—is amemory. “How do you know that? You weren’t there… you couldn’t have been. So how do youknow?”
Dallas doesn’t answer. He just looks at me, as thoughthatis the answer.
And, suddenly, I understand. If I couldn’t tell him what happened in that hotel room, and the cops have no fucking clue, there’s only one person who could confess what he’d done.
That doesn’t stop me from asking again, “How do you know that, Dallas?”
Still nothing.
My voice rises. “How do youknow?”
His continued silence confirms everything, but he goes one step further as he says in a cold voice: “It doesn’t matter. He can never hurt you again.”
So that’s why he was free to play the part of my husband. Because he got rid of the real one.
“When?”
Dallas cocks his head, a dare in the slight curve to his lips. “When I had to leave you with Haven.”
He said it was ajob. I give a hollow laugh, not because the real Julian is dead, but because it wasDallaswho killed him. “Is that what you do?”
“What?”
“Tell me, Dallas. Is that what being the King of the Order means?”
Now that? That gets a reaction as he jerks slightly, his eyes flashing. “Where did you?—”
“I didn’t just find my wedding announcement in the Order archives,” I confess. “There was a mention of the King and he had the same name as you. Collins. I looked it up and there was your picture, announcing you as the new King the June before last.”
Right after his father died.
I didn’t have time to look up a photo of Jack—not when I was too preoccupied by what I found when I searched Dallas’s name—but now… I look at Dallas. I mean, really look at him. I push aside my feelings for him—as conflicted as I am, I love him and I hate him, but I undoubtedly love him more—and pick apart his features. His green eyes. The sharp edge of his jaw. The slope of his nose. His sandy brown hair with hints of gold.
Add twenty years, whiten the teeth to a commercial sheen, turn the curls straight and have a little work down—not much, just enough to get rid of the hard lines and soft wrinkles—and that’s the third man in my most recurring nightmare, the onewhen my dad sits by as the man with the predator’s smile makes arrangements for me to marry…
Julian.
“Your father was King before you. That’s what the website said. You told me that you inherited everything from him.” I wave my hand around. “This penthouse. That office. The top dog position in your stupid secret society. Let me ask you, Dallas… did he look like you? Little older, little plastic, with white teeth and green eyes? An attitude like we were all peons and he expected us to do what we were told or else?”
Or else he’ll killyou.
Dallas freezes. “You saw a picture of Jack?”
