Gentle. So gentle. His palm cups the back of my skull, steadying me, his thumb brushing the wet hair from my temple.For one heartbeat his eyes hold mine and something vast and aching passes between us. Something that has nothing to do with contracts or gold or fake anything.
Then he turns back to the fountain.
Mark has made it to his feet. He stands shin-deep in the draining water, swaying, his tuxedo jacket ballooning with trapped air. A hydrangea petal is still plastered to his nostril. His bitten thumb is swelling purple. He looks like a raccoon pulled from a storm drain.
Dash reaches down.
One hand. Just one. It closes around the back of Mark's collar and the waistband of his trousers simultaneously, bunching the wet fabric into a single fistful. Mark's feet leave the stone. He rises out of the fountain basin in a smooth, vertical arc, water cascading off his legs, his arms pinwheeling, his mouth opening and closing like a landed trout.
Dash deposits him on the grass beside me.
Mark lands on his knees. Coughs. Spits fountain water onto the white aisle runner.
"You're done," Dash says.
He has the tone of a man ordering coffee. And that is somehow worse than any roar could ever be. Two hundred guests lean forward in their chairs. My mother lowers her candelabra half an inch.
Mark looks up.
Something stupid happens behind his eyes. Something reckless and wounded and entirely predictable. The same look he wore the night he smashed my stand mixer because I spent too long at the bakery. The same look he wore when he keyed my delivery van after I changed the locks. The cornered-animal fury of a man who has never once in his life accepted a consequence.
He stands.
Winds up.
Throws a right hook directly at Dash's jaw.
His fist connects with a wet smack. Knuckles against green skin. Dash's head doesn't move. Not a millimeter. Not a fraction. The blow lands and absorbs into the dense Orcish bone structure like a pebble hitting a castle wall.
Mark's face goes white.
His hand goes limp at his side. Three of his fingers bend at angles that fingers should not bend. A sound escapes his mouth. High. Thin. The whimper of a man who just punched a concrete pillar and discovered that physics is not negotiable.
Dash blinks once.
"That was free."
He reaches down. Both hands this time. They close around Mark's torso, fingers overlapping against his ribcage, and Mark rises. Past Dash. Past his shoulders. Past the tusk and the amber eyes and the scar that runs from his left ear to his collarbone. Mark's ruined dress shoes kick the empty air. His arms flail. His mouth opens to scream and only a strangled gurgle comes out.
Dash locks his elbows.
Mark is overhead. Fully extended. Held aloft like a barbell at the peak of a clean press. His body silhouetted against the afternoon sun, water still dripping from his trouser cuffs onto Dash's upturned face.
Two hundred guests hold their breath.
My mother drops the candelabra.
Dash shifts his weight to his back foot. His shoulders rotate. His hips load. Every single muscle in his massive frame coils with the gathered, terrifying potential energy of a catapult at full draw.
Mark finds his voice.
"PLEASE—"
Dash holds the position. Waiting. His amber eyes find mine across the ruined lawn, asking a question without words.
My call.
CHAPTER 14
