Page 61 of Bound

“Which are not simply hobbies,” the man countered. “Correct or not?”

Through some twisted miracle, Brick flowed into a new shrug. It felt damn good because he meant it. “It’s nothing Jayd doesn’t know already.”

And to mean every syllable of that confidence too? It was beyond good.

All the way up to the part when it didn’t.

When it was jarring, because of the next recognition it brought.

The part where he realized that, apart from one gigantic secret of his soul, Jayd Cimarron knew every major point about the rest. Fortunately, the Cimarron Scooby Spy Gang wouldn’t ever know either.

Only seven living entities on this planet knew about the darkest moments of his life. Five of them were Bamiyan cave rats. One of them was Doc Sally, bound by professional oath to keep the detail safe in her file back on base. And the other one was long since dead.

“Well, knowing it all and comprehending it all are two different things.”

Evrest’s retort, for all its terseness, pierced the air with perfect timing. Brick was all too happy to banish Asha’s memory to the back of his brain again.

To help with the cause, he lifted his gaze and focused on the view beyond the window. There was a small tropical oasis that looked like a private garden, with a sprawling banyan that cradled a good-sized treehouse. Past that, a wider lawn was bisected by a flagstone footpath that led out to the vast white beach. No detail of it resembled Bamiyan. Thank fuck.

“That so?” he finally replied to the brooding monarch, who’d started projecting impatient vibes. “Exactly what part of comprehending do you believe your sister incapable of?”

It was slathered with more snark than he’d intended—but maybe that was a hidden good thing. While Evrest Cimarron deserved every ounce of his due respect as Jayd’s sovereign and sibling, he wondered if anyone had ever dared call the guy on the carpet like this. To demand his figurative money be shifted to his real mouth. To ultimately hold his feet to the fire.

But now that he’d done so, what could he expect?

Evrest answered that by sweeping back around with a let’s-do-this air.

“You call her Pixie, yes?” the man said, not letting another beat go by. “That probably started because of the new haircut, but you quickly realized it fit her in many ways. The way her trust level—or lack of it—shows in her eyes. That directly affects her stubborn streak, betrayed most notably by what she does with her chin and shoulders.”

“Impressive.” Brick gave up a steady nod. “Observant man.”

“No,” Evrest volleyed. “More like loving brother.” He settled his stance and firmed his gaze. “The brother who also knows that her most transparent surface is her heart, and not because she wears it on her sleeve.” As he stepped closer, his gaze took on laser intensity. “It is because her entire being is covered in it, Mr. Brickham. Do you get that? Do you truly and fully comprehend that? Do not answer me right away.” He flung up a hand. “Do not think about handing me over some trite agreement that you think I want to hear. Think about her. About this woman you keep calling extraordinary. Think about what that truly means when it comes to Jayd Dawne Cimarron. She is not a princess—or a daughter, or a sister, or a friend, or an Arcadian—because it is all simply her duty. All these things are imprinted upon her because she cares that deeply and sees all of it with that depth of loyalty.”

He paused, stabbing a hand through his hair like the limb suddenly weighed five hundred pounds.

“She is not just extraordinary, Mr. Brickham,” he finally murmured. “She is good…to an existential importance of the word. That doesn’t make her naïve or clueless. She understands decency and kindness and the reality of people in this world who lack it. It simply makes her—”

“Fragile.”

For a long second, he couldn’t believe he’d spewed the word. But then he shook his head, perplexed how he hadn’t connected it sooner.

No. That wasn’t true. Nobody in their right mind would ever consider using that word for Jayd—at least not first on their list. Not the twentieth, fiftieth, or hundredth either. He certainly hadn’t when the woman had first blown his mind in that tiny Paris alley. Not when they’d had to go undercover by getting nearly naked at the kink club either. Definitely not when she had gone nude at the safe house, giving herself to him with such confidence and magnificence.

But between all those times, in her moments of revelation, she’d handed over the pebbles that Evrest had referred to.

The tiny stones that could break her glass.

The iridescence in her eyes when she spoke about her brothers. The love in her touch when she fussed over Requiemme. The kindness with which she treated everyday people like bartenders and flower sellers and even metro train conductors.

That was before his memories of the signs only he’d seen. The small tears that escaped as she shuddered after an orgasm. The deep devotion that mingled with her passion. The adoration that shined along with her submission.

Fucking Christ.

It really was all there.

He just hadn’t seen it. Because he hadn’t wanted to.

“Fragile.”