I keep my face neutral. “Because you asked me to.”
“I did.” He sets the glass down, turning it slowly. “And I appreciate it.”
There’s something in his tone that doesn’t sound like gratitude.
Benny strolls out from the back, nods at Art, and slides onto a barstool. Rosalie pours him something without asking. They settle into quiet conversation, but Benny keeps glancing our way every few seconds.
A chill crawls up my spine like a spider.
“So,” Art says. “You’ve seen theRag.”
“Hard to miss.”
“Funny thing about cameras.” His voice is deceptively casual. “They catch all kinds of things you don’t expect.”
“It was a leaf, Art. In her hair. That’s it.”
“Sure.” He nods. “The thing is, I know you. Better than anyone. I know how you look at things you want.”
My chest tightens, guilt wrapping around me like a fist. Because he’s not wrong. The photo caught exactly what was happening, and no amount of explaining is going to erase the way I was looking at her.
“Nothing happened,” I say. And it’s not a lie. Not technically.
“I know.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Because she’s mine. And you are, too. Blood brothers, right?”
I think about the Art who said those words for the first time, when the promise felt enormous, like we were writing something permanent into the universe.
It was one of the most important moments of my childhood. It bled into my adult life and was the reason I sacrificedeverythingto keep him safe.
And right now, he’s weaponizing it. And it’s not the first time.
“That’s what we are,” I say.
“Good. Then there’s no reason for this to become a thing.” He drains his glass. “It’s just difficult when things get back to my father.”
There’s the real concern. Not that his best friend might have feelings for his girlfriend. That his father might see the optics and disapprove.
I wonder when that happened. When Franklin’s opinion started mattering more than mine. When the kid who used to sneak out his bedroom window to meet me at the falls turned into someone who manages me over bourbon in a back booth.
But it doesn’t matter, really. It either happened slowly, ormaybe all at once, and I was too busy being stuck underground fromhischoices to notice until it was too late.
“I found out some things in Boston,” Art says, shifting gears with the ease of someone who’s decided the previous topic is closed. “About the guy who was following Gin.”
My pulse kicks. This is what matters. “You said there was nothing.”
His eyes glance to the bar. “I didn’t want to worry her.”
“And?”
“His name is Bors. Myrddin sent him to keep tabs on her. We were right. Leo was the attorney on a case—one of their guys got picked up in Boston—and they wanted to make sure he stayed in line and got the charges dropped.”
He’s giving me a name. An actual name. After the dinner where he gave us nothing, he’s suddenly volunteering information.
Which means he wants something, or he doesn’t trust his girlfriend.
“Now that the case is handled, there’s no reason for Bors to be sniffing around,” Art continues. “Which means there’s really no reason for Gin to stay at your place anymore.”
“I thought you said it was the Feds sniffing around.”
