I swallowed, my pulse fluttering against his fingers where they brushed my throat. “And what if I wanted control?” I whispered.
Something dark flickered in his expression as the air suddenly shifted, his fingers stilling against my skin. For a moment his jaw tightened, his eyes hardening to stone. “It’s not going to happen.”
I frowned, wanting to understand. “Why?”
His eyes met mine, unblinking. “No is the only answer you’ll ever get.”
Hands on my hips, he gently moved me to the side so he could stand. I sat up a little more in bed, suddenly feeling exposed as I tugged the sheet to cover myself.
This man was a walking contradiction, so hot and cold that it was the perfect reminder that I didn’t know him. He was nothing more than a stranger whose path had tangled up with mine.
“You left last night,” I pointed out, clutching the sheets tighter to my breasts. “I didn’t think you were coming back.”
“I usually don’t.” The muscles in his shoulders bunched as he turned, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Then why did you come back?”
Why did you leave in the first place?
He turned to look out the window, and I caught the faint pale circles ghosting across his skin. The scars were so subtle, only noticeably because of how the light had hit him and likely decades old. Most had been hidden beneath those tattoos, but up close you could see the ridges.
I wanted to trace them with my fingertips, paint across those memories in splashes of colour. I knew there were more scars beneath his snake tattoo, having felt them hiding amongst the ink.
Strange circles that puckered the skin.
Like cigarette burns.
After a moment, he turned back. It was still dark outside, the early morning city a silhouette behind him.
He touched the sketches I’d left on the table, the flowers I couldn’t get out of my head last night, lingering until exhaustion finally dragged me under. They were a mess of tangled lines, scattered in my failed attempt to make sense of it all.
Scrunching the sheet around me, I stood, moving closer. “I think I need to speak to mum. She’ll tell us they’re after the wrong person and this was all a mistake.”
That the flowers were just flowers.
That the articles and photographs were nothing more than a strange fixation, just another symptom of her condition.
Ryder’s gaze skimmed the scattered drawings before fixing on me. “It’s not a mistake. You already know that.”
“You don’t know her.” My voice came out sharper than I meant, but I didn’t take it back. “She?—”
“She hid an entire life, Violet.” His voice dropped, no longer dark and rich but something far more dangerous. “She lied and?—”
“And you haven’t?” I snapped, my knuckles white from how hard I gripped the sheets.
Ryder stilled, turning slowly.
“God, what are you even still doing here?” My chest burned as the words kept spilling out. “You could run, disappear.”
Ryder took a step towards me. “Violet?—”
“The price on your head would vanish, and?—”
“Am I even allowed?—”
“You can be free of all of this. Ryder, you’re?—”
“Christ, it’s like you have word vomit. You don’t stop, do you?” Ryder reached forward to brush his fingers through my hair, tangling in the length so he could tip my head to the side. “Once you get hold of something, you can’t let it go. You just keep digging and digging until you force the hand.”
