Then I got busy with blow-drying and used my wand to add long, loose curls. Almost as if I was readying for the stage. When it came to my makeup, though, I downplayed it. It didn’t need to be over the top or attention-grabbing. I had all the attention I could ever want waiting outside the door.
A black Bardot dress, cut a little slutty, heels, a spritz of perfume, and I stared in the mirror. It was me. The version of myself that could take on the world.
It wasn’t the mirror’s reaction I wanted.
In the kitchen, under bright lights, Tyler glanced up from the counter. He stopped moving, a bowl clattering down from his hand.
All my stress and pain and happiness converged in a rush that turned into words. Questions I could no longer avoid.
“Why me? Why steal me? Why did you do it?”
He gripped the counter, his gaze travelling up to my eyes.
I hated what I saw in his. Self-loathing. Agony. I didn’t want him to hurt.
He masked it. Turned and put the food he’d been preparing into the fridge. Then he prowled over to me. I should’ve backed away but I held my ground until he was inches away.
He’d changed out of his wet things and into black jeans and a skeleton crew t-shirt. We matched, in the way only a showgirl and a gangster could.
He was so close, all I had to do was lean in and I’d be on him. In heels, I was that much nearer to his mouth.
“You’re not hungry?” he said low.
“Not yet. If you are, talk faster.”
Tyler caught my hand in his much bigger one. My shock of attraction soared at that touch of skin, and I let him lead me to the window seat. Not the comfy sofa or the padded stools in the kitchen. The broad wooden plank that framed the picture window looking out onto the storm.
Giving up that lovely contact, he took one side and I perched on the other, leaving my heels on the floor to curl my legs under myself.
I sensed his coiling energy. It hadn’t budged since he’d got home.
“I took ye because I had no choice.”
I stayed silent. He had to find his way into this. I only needed to understand it. For my sake, not his.
Tyler ran his thumbnail over the opposing one. A nervous tell I’d never seen him do before.
“Occasionally, I get overcome with the need to take action. By which I mean I lose control. In the field, this manifests as dead traffickers.”
I’d heard rumours. Dancers spilling the tea at how surprised others were at competent, controlled Tyler flipping out and going on a killing spree. A blood frenzy. Not that the traffickers would have lived for long. But the stories were he regretted the loss of being able to ask questions.
I kept my gaze steady on him.
“I don’t do it because I enjoy it. At least not only that. It happens because once, I didn’t move fast enough.”
Damn. At whatever memories played out in his mind, Tyler looked broken. My pulse picked up. I needed to know.
“Family?”
His eyes met mine. He nodded once.
“How many?”
“All of them.”
I spoke in a rush. “How old were you?”
“Thirteen. Old enough to think I could’ve done something about it.”
