Page 32 of Heist in Paradise

“No.”

My mouth dropped in outrage. “No?”

“No,” he repeated softly. I was about to lose it. Before I could do something extreme, like a repeat performance of lamp javelin, he added: “You were right.”

My mind went blank.

It was the last thing I expected him to say. “Right about what?” I asked warily.

“Him.”

My temper flared back to life. “Jesus fucking Christ. Can you break character for just a minute and finish a whole sentence?”

That made him laugh.

Again, my brain stuttered in shock, not expecting it. It was a rough sound, not at all comforting, like it’d been scraped up from somewhere forgotten inside him.

He gestured to the bed, and my stupid brain latched onto it like an invitation. I planted my feet and clenched my fists, not trusting myself. “What’s wrong with this picture?” he asked, like a game.

“I don’t know.”

“Try.”

I huffed, fully aware I was being distracted. “The nightstands are empty. And the bed was perfectly made before you assaulted me on top of it.”

He happily ignored that. “What else?”

“I don’t know. The pillows clash with the curtains?”

He glanced down at me, lip quirking up in a ghostly smile. I hadn’t realized I’d come to stand next to him and purposely stepped back. “There is no art in here.”

I glanced around, noting he was right. “So?”

“There’s space for it,” he said, pointing at the sizeable patch of wall above the huge headboard. “Every other room has one except this one.”

“Okay, Sherlock. What does that tell us?”

“He doesn’t sleep in here.”

I frowned, not buying it. Madoc rolled his head with an unnerving crack, like he was about to deliver a final blow. I scanned his tattoos quickly—he had the same crow as Jax but bigger, wrapped around his equally impressive bicep. “All his clothes are in here,” I said, wrenching my eyes back to the bed. “And his toiletries. Why would he use the bathroom but not the bed?”

“Gold star for Watson.”

“Maybe he has a fear of heights,” I deliberated, chewing on my lip, breaking the skin. Blood welled on my tongue, and I licked at it absently. “We’re on the top floor. There are seven other bedrooms, plus the lower staff quarters, not that he’d likely choose them—what are you doing?”

Madoc had stepped into my space, his eyes so dark they held my white-faced reflection. He stared at my mouth intently. “Show me,” he demanded in a quiet, deadly voice.

I froze. “S-Show you what?”

His intensity didn’t waver. “Open your mouth.”

Fear-dumb, I did. His jaw clenched, and his nostrils flared, his eyes flat and furious and terrifying. Then his own tongue snaked out, a silver ball piercing catching on his top teeth with a gentle click. Like a demented vampire, he stared at my bloody lip like he wanted to devour it—

Just as suddenly, he snapped out of it, turning away so abruptly that I was left standing, open-mouthed, like an idiot.

What the hell was that?

While my brain caught up, I heard the creak of floorboards, and then Ryle bustled in. “Hey—oh.” He stopped short, looking between Madoc and me like he’d caught us with our pants down. I felt as mortified as if he had.