“That you’ll go after her money?” Regan’s expression didn’t change. “No.”
The certainty in her voice hit harder than suspicion would have.
I looked away first.
“Dylan,” she said quietly, “you were far gone when she had prickers in her hair and scratches on her skin. Money isn’t what’s going to make you fall in love.”
My shoulders tightened.
“Whoa.”
“Don’t.”
“She’s seventeen,” I said. “I’m only?—”
“I know exactly how old she is.”
“Then don’t say things like that.”
“I’m saying them because someone has to.”
I dragged a hand over my face and remembered again there was no beard to hide behind. “I’m not in love with her.”
Regan took a slow sip of her drink.
I hated that sip.
That sip knew too much.
“It doesn’t matter what you call it,” she said. “The way you look at her has to stop.”
“I’m not stopping her from starting over.”
“Not intentionally.”
“I’m not.”
“No.” Regan’s voice softened. “But Destiny has never had many people make her feel chosen. Right now, you do. That’s powerful. Maybe too powerful.”
The words landed deep because they were true.
I picked up the cigarette, saw it had burned nearly to the filter, and crushed it out in the ashtray.
“I never told her my story,” I said.
Regan waited.
“Callum knows pieces. He’d never tell. He patched me. Took me in.” I looked at the ink on my hands, the old scars across my knuckles. “I’ve done things, Regan. To earn this patch. To keep it on my back. Things that don’t wash out just because I stand in the ocean and pretend to be some vacation idiot.”
“We’ve all done things.”
“Not like me.”
“You don’t know that.”
I laughed once, bitter. “You think I’m not good enough for her.”
Regan didn’t answer right away.
