Page 79 of Stealing Blinds

“I should’ve been.” There’s a wistfulness to that, like it’s a secret she’s launching into the universe.

Since that’s an indication that she’s probably in her head about her father, I give her a minute to process what she confessed while I lean the bike to the right around a bend, veer into the lane that will lead us to the private airfield, and clamp my arm over hers.

As we vanish into the open road under an inky sky, the city lights fading in our wake, I delve a little deeper. “Is that what you want to do?”

“I wish I could, but … no. I mean,” she huffs, her exasperation breezing through the mic, “I don’t want to steal anything after I’m done with this because what happened tonight … and going to jail or dying … the high isn’t worth any of that, which might be the healthiest perspective I’ve had in a long time. After my dad died and then after I lost the baby and found out about Flora and Danny, I didn’t care.” Her voice cracks with that, and I battle the urge to pull over and hold her while she continues, “Freedom wasn’t enticing enough because there was nothing to come home to. I wasn’t … I’m rambling.”

“Not rambling. It all sounded clear to me.” Hope swells at the base of my throat, and if I didn’t grasp it fully before, I know now that I am completely and utterly gone over this woman. And the notion that she has the power to make me whole or absolutely destroy me pulses with every thump of my hammering heart. But still, never one to back down, I raise her, like I would in a poker game. “Is there something you want to fight for now, baby?”

“I don’t know,” she breathes, and the wrecking ball swings. “Not a life where murder is easy.”

I can’t really fault her for that because despite her profession, Sylvie is good to her very core. That’s what makes this world such a tangled mess for her. It’s why she’s pissed about the Van Gogh—because his work should be revered, even by thieves. It’s why she wants to forgive her sister when most people wouldn’t even consider rebuilding that relationship. It’s why she put off the Olympics until the man who’d poured his heart into training her could be there. And why she was willing to sacrifice a medal she’d worked her whole life for after he was gone. It’s why she holds herself accountable anytime she utters something harsh.

So, of course, she doesn’t want to be aligned with a world where murder is commonplace. She values the sanctity of life with the same conviction most people in my circle dismiss it. But she’s overlooking a vital point.

“You talked about what things are worth—like the painting in that office—about how imperative it was to protect it. I won’t claim to be someone I’m not. That wasn’t the first time I’d chosen that route. But tonight? Easiest fucking decision of my life. You are my priceless art. I would choose jail or dying or you being pissed at me over losing you any fucking day, so what does that mean?”

She’s silent for the longest time, but I afford her the space to collect her thoughts while we close in on our destination. And as we barrel into the airfield, her chest rumbles against my back with her decision.

“I know this is my mess, so thank you for cleaning it up. I would’ve been killed. I’m grateful you were there tonight. And I’ve loved our time together, but I …” She stalls when I shut off the bike, only managing to finish once she notices I’m not removing my helmet. “I don’t think I can be part of … this.”

Even though I was bracing for it, the wind is knocked from my lungs. I remove my helmet, get off the bike, and help her do the same, clutching her chin between my thumb and index finger.

“You already are, Sylvie. If you’d taken that Van Gogh, what would you have done with it?”

Her breath hitches the second she understands. “I’d have kept it.”

“Exactly.”

CASH

By the time we arrive home, the sun is high in the sky, and Sylvie is resigned. She slept from takeoff until the wheels touched down. She hasn’t spoken a word since we boarded. I’m at a loss for how to approach this.

All I could think during the flight was that she’d always picked jocks, men who at least appeared to be on the up-and-up. I can’t offer her that. There isn’t a cell in my being willing to let her go, and yet I’m questioning whether every fear I ever had about being in a relationship was accurate.

My father wasn’t exactly the definition of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He was more like a Siberian tiger—charismatic, impossible not to notice, and dangerously good-looking. He commanded any room he walked into and could summon ladies to him with a mere wink. Maybe they sensed it, but ultimately, they ignored that he was a predator. He offered them the world, took everything he wanted from them, and shred them to pieces.

He ran the same resort my brothers and I run, associated with the same crooked circles we do, and yet when I compare Axel to him, it’s like a different species. Hayden Noire stabbed anyone within reach in the back. He didn’t even value his own family. And for years, when I was in my teens and twenties, women who’d known him would say that Maddox looked like him, but I had his charm and his essence.

The thought of being anything like him made my skin crawl. Still does. So, I decided I’d be the kind of guy who promised nothing, ensured that anyone I was with wanted a no-strings tryst as much as I did, and parted ways quickly so there was no confusion, no judgment, and no chance of attachment.

It always worked. Not that there wasn’t an occasional unhappy-clinger debacle, but for the most part, I didn’t have to explain my lifestyle or my choices or anything else. And no one looked at me like I was a monster.

Until her.

As soon as we walk into the penthouse, Tessa and Zara usher Sylvie upstairs, and she doesn’t even spare me a glance. My brothers were already informed about how last night had gone, so none of them are floored by her demeanor. Ryker kicks his chin toward the conference room, urging me to join them there, so we all trek down the hall, get ourselves some drinks, and take our seats.

Axel cocks his head at my glass. “It’s a whiskey kind of morning?”

It’s too fucking early for his fatherly admonishment.

I guess I’m the only one who didn’t go with coffee, but that wouldn’t cut it. “Probably gonna be a whiskey afternoon and evening too.”

“York sent a report that everything had gone smoothly.” Axel stares at me from his head-of-the-table seat with concern. “We haven’t gotten an ID from the pictures you took of the guys, but you said Sylvie got what she needed. Is this about what happened or about the two of you?”

“Both. I …” As if to emphasize how off I am, I finish my whiskey, grab the bottle from the bar, sit back down, and pour myself another. “I’m fucking everything up, and … I can’t even try to pull back on who I am because she’s in real trouble.”

“She is,” he confirms, his tone teetering on the ominous edge of warning. “More than she can fathom.”