He has found the trap I've built for myself. And he realizes that I am currently standing in it with both feet.
"Right," Brooks says smoothly. His voice is silk over steel.
His eyes lock onto mine with the force of a physical blow. His lips pull back, baring teeth. The expression is cold, predatory, and terrifyingly sharp. It is the look of a man who has been handed the winning hand in a high-stakes poker game he didn't even know he was playing.
He reaches out his hand.
For a second, I think he's going to strike me. But he doesn't. He takes my hand in his. His skin is warm, his grip firm and unyielding. He pulls me a step closer to the bed, forcing me into his orbit.
"She's devoted," he tells the nurse, never breaking eye contact with me. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, a gesture that looks affectionate but feels like a shackle. "Aren't you, darling?"
My heart stops.
I have no way out. If I pull away, if I deny it, the nurse asks questions. If the nurse asks questions, the police get called. If the police get called, Mason gets subpoenaed.
I am standing on the edge of a cliff, and Brooks Taylor is holding the only rope.
I force a smile that feels like it might crack my face open.
"Yes," I whisper, my voice trembling. "Devoted."
The corners of his mouth tick upward, barely a fraction. It doesn't reach his eyes. They are cold, calculating, and victorious.
"See?" he says to the nurse, giving my hand a squeeze that is tight enough to hurt. "I'm a lucky man."
CHAPTER TWO
BROOKS
The moment the door clicks shut, sealing the nurse and her suffocating cheerfulness in the hallway, I drop Ivy Sullivan's hand.
I don't just let it go. I fling it away like it's a piece of burning coal, letting it fall back against the sterile white sheet.
Her skin lingers on my palm, an irritating ghost sensation that I immediately scrub off against the rough hospital blanket.
The performance is over.
I let my head fall back against the pillow, closing my eyes as the room tilts on a sickening, violent axis.
The pain is a living thing, a dull, rhythmic thumping behind my right eye that feels less like a headache and more like a structural failure.
Cherub, I think, the word floating through the haze of my concussion.She tackled me into a cherub.
I should be angry. Iamangry. But mostly, I am stunned by the sheer, unmitigated audacity of the woman currently standing by my bed.
I open my eyes.
Ivy is still frozen in place, her hand hovering where I dropped it.
Her face, pale, wide-eyed, framed by hair that looks like it went twelve rounds with a hedge trimmer, is a portrait of pure, unadulterated panic. She looks like a deer that has not only been caught in the headlights but has also realized it is driving the car.
"You're good," I say. My voice is rough, scraping against the silence. "I almost believed you myself."
Ivy flinches. She lowers her hand slowly, clutching her other wrist as if checking that the plastic hospital bracelet, the one that claims she's my fiancée, is still there.
"Brooks," she starts, her voice trembling but miraculously steadying itself. "I can explain."
"Can you?" I ask. "Can you explain why you assaulted me in a garden, kidnapped me in an ambulance, and then committed identity fraud to gain access to my recovery room? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like a very specific kind of felony bingo."
