Water droplets cascade down the hard planes and divots in his abdomen, drawing my eyes to his tattoos. The one that holds my attention is a giant octopus on his upper chest. Its tentacles drape down his arm, across his defined torso, and over his shoulder. It’s a work of art, and I can’t help but stare at it.
Maybe a little too long when he cuts through my distracted state. “You’re not swimming?”
Probably a good thing I’m not, considering there are only skimpy bikinis in my closet.
I wonder if Preston selected those.
I’d prefer not to give Carter an eyeful of the strokes and blemishes decorating my stomach. He would ask questions. I try not to show them if I can help it.
Someday I’ll wear them with pride. The marks of a survivor. Not a runner.
That day is not today.
“I was looking around and found myself in here. It’s peaceful.” I take another sip of my wine.
His tongue darts out, swiping the water off his lips. “Yeah, I like coming in here when I need to think.” He peers around, something unspoken in his eyes. “It’s one of my favorite places on the estate.”
“Have you been here long?”
“What’s your definition of long?”
I shrug.
He wades through the water toward me, his hard body gliding through like a predator. “The Megalley Syndicate has been my family, this has been my home, for the last twelve years.”
My eyes lock onto his. “You say family like this was the one you were born into.”
I know he wasn’t, but I say it because I’m being nosy. Digging for more information about this mob as if it can reveal a complexity that extends beyond their criminal activities. They are still human. They have blood running through their veins, even if they drain others.
The world may be as beautiful as it is dark, but there are various hues of gray blended through, too.
I’m just not sure what shadetheyare.
Luckily for me, Carter entertains my question. “I wasn’t. But blood means nothing. Family isn’t a physical tie, it’s a feeling.”
Setting my wine glass down next to me, I ponder that. “Preston said you threw yourself on top of him when he was shot.”
The natural light casting shadows across his face moves as his jaw flexes. “Yeah. Well, he shouldn’t have been fucking shot to begin with. I should’ve reacted sooner. That bullet should’ve been mine.”
My brows furrow. “You would’ve taken a bullet for him?”
His stern gaze makes me think I’m pressing too hard, but my eye contact doesn’t falter. It takes a few heartbeats, but he responds. “Yes—and it's not just because it's my job. He’s my family, and I’d do anything for him and Arden, even if it means putting my life at risk.”
I brace my elbows on my knees, leaning over them, hoping he’ll elaborate more about his past. Unlike Preston and Arden,Carter has no Irish dialect in his tone, which I find interesting. “So, you don’t have any blood relatives?”
He leans back, floating on the water. “It’s complicated.”
I stare at him until he sighs, fed up with my steadfast attention ruining his peace, and sits back up. “Questions can put you in danger around here.”
“I’m in danger anyway. It doesn’t make a difference,” I mumble honestly.
Slits appear in his eyes, but then they soften after a moment. “I was a drug addict. Lived on the streets in Boston for a year before Arden found me.”
That catches me off guard.
My chest stills. “Arden found you?”
When I think he won't say anything else, he swims closer, bracing his wet, massive hands beside me on the ledge to hold himself there.
