“Beckham!” Reyna cried, reaching out for Gabe.
“What the fuck?” Gabe cried at almost the same.
But Beckham wasn’t even looking at them. He was far off somewhere else. His face cold and hard as stone. The mask she’d seen for so long before. Then he walked past them both.
“I just asked a fucking question,” he grumbled. “What’s with him?”
Reyna sighed. “It was tense and it’s been a long night. But heshouldn’t have taken that out on you.”
“You think?”
Reyna’s eyes were still following Beckham out the door to where Gerard waited. “We should probably get back.”
“What happened that has him so pissed off?”
“We got what we were looking for,” Reyna said on a sigh. “But there was a price. One neither of us wanted to pay.”
“Must have really rankled him.” Gabe followed her toward the door. “I’m dying to know though, what’s the contact’s name? Everyone is so secretive.”
Reyna opened her mouth.
Graves.
She coughed. Nothing came out. She tried again.
Graves.
Gabe raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t find out?”
She swallowed, shocked by the fact that she couldn’t make herself say his name. She could think it. She’d been able to say it in his presence—hell, he’d commanded her call him Graves. But now she couldn’t say it out loud. Had she said it out loud since leaving his house?
“He told us,” she muttered. “But I can’t say it.”
Gabe’s eyes widened. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay. What did he look like? Maybe I’ve seen him around.”
Reyna opened her mouth to describe that midnight blue black hair. The stormy gray eyes. The immense height and expensive suit and the sheer magnitude of his beauty. And nothing.
She shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t say.”
“What the fuck, Reyna? Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
Gabe rubbed his jaw once before slipping the back door open for her. “What kind of guy can keep you from saying his name or what he looks like? Was he not human?”
Reyna chewed her lip.No.Definitely not human.
“Fuck me. You really can’t say,” Gabe said in shock.
“I really can’t.”
Reyna slid into the backseat of the van, carefully watching Beckham in the passenger seat. Beckham never looked back at her, and she felt almost as if he had a block on his emotions. She didn’t dare try to discover them through their bond, but his anger was so evident. His shoulders tensed, his jaw set, his fingers typing rapidly on his phone in a way that felt all too familiar. And not in the best way. She didn’t like that he was hurting or burying deep down whatever he was feeling. It was a defense mechanism, but it didn’t make her feel any better.
It was a long and silent ride back to the mansion. The windows might as well have frozen over with Beckham’s frigidity the whole way.
