Page 28 of Stolen Trophy


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ERIC

Istare at the beautiful woman before me as she crumbles and all that strength, confidence, malice, and hate she was spewing disappears. Everyone breaks, I know that. Genevieve Dalton is no exception. Despite that inner steel, she is still a feeling human. She’s capable of sadness, love, and betrayal, and right now, it’s all too much for her. She turns her head away, her tangled wet hair falling across her stunning face as if to hide her tears from me, and I see her cheeks heat in embarrassment.

Her slender figure is dwarfed by my shirt, but it does nothing to detract from her beauty. In fact, with wet hair and a clean face, and in nothing but an old shirt, she looks more beautiful than she did in the dress—real, touchable, and still completely out of our league, but…authentic.

I like it.

Moving closer, I grip her chin and turn her face back to mine. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, ones she’s trying so hard to push back, as if she hates that sign of weakness. She acts as if, in her old life, it would be used against her and preyed upon, and it probably would be, knowing the rich fuckers. They would circle like piranhas at the earliest sign of despair.

Not us. We all know how it feels to break.

Still, I turn her slightly, blocking her from the stairs in case the others come up to give her what reprieve I can. Her lower lip trembles as she looks up at me, moisture gathering on her long, thick lashes. Those bright eyes are almost dim, and I hate it. I want the quick-witted, sassy woman back. She’s too strong to be standing here crying before me.

I hate that we did this to her. Regret creeps in every time I look at her, and I know I have to make this right. The others might not care, but she’s like us—just someone trying to survive.

She deserves better.

“You are far too beautiful to ruin it with tears,” I tease, trying to drag her back to flirting with me, but instead, a lone tear slips from her eye and trails down her face. I track it before I rub my thumb across it, capturing it on the tip. I meet her eyes and lick it from my finger, watching her soft intake of breath.

“Beauty isn’t everything,” she whispers brokenly, “and those who think it is are stupid, fickle creatures who have never had to survive using anything else.”

Her statement makes me flinch, because she’s right—beauty doesn’t save you from starvation, illness, or even death. Only you can do that with wits and cunning.

Like the woman before me.

“It wasn’t personal,” I whisper, finally answering her first question.

Disgust and anger replace the sadness in her eyes as she rips my hand from her face, her lips twisting in fury. “It was personal to me,” she spits out before storming past me, knocking her shoulder into mine, and sending me back a step. My lips quirk. I’m happy to see her doing anything other than crying. For some reason, it hurt my heart.

I follow after her, needing to explain, needing for her to understand. She can hate us—that’s fine, we deserve it—even if a part of me aches at seeing it directed at me. “It wasn’t even about you,” I call as I follow her into the room. I have to slide my booted foot into the door when she tries to slam it in my face. Snarling, she turns away as I push it open and step in after her. Closing it, I place my back to the wood, as if I need it to hold me up for this conversation. In reality, it is taking everything in me not to scoop her into my arms and promise to protect her. To shield her.

She doesn’t need that.

She survived her past, and she survived the rich snakes of the city, so she can survive us.

When she is free and she returns to her life of jewels and galas, it will be nothing but a dirty little story they sweep under the rug. Too raw. Too real. Too scary for them. She will forget us, but I will never forget the woman before me. Not this woman who spins, propping her hands on her hips as she shakes in anger. Her spine straightens, her eyes flash like lightning in a storm, and her jaw clenches.

In her fury, I see more than her beauty.

I see the very soul of the woman before me, and it leaves me breathless as I am helplessly swept into the winds of anger that seem to whip around her as she advances on me. She only stops when we are toe-to-toe, her finger prodding my chest. Even though she has to tilt her head back to look at me, there is no mistaking who is in charge.

Who isstronger.

“Yes, it was. You came into my perfectly laid out life and invaded it.Youtook me prisoner.You locked me away, almost froze me, and hurt me, and now you’re lying to me. It might not have been personal to you, but I can assure you, Eric—” My name is almost mocking on her lips, and I hate it. I want her to say it in the flirty way she used to when she rolled it from her tongue. “It was very fucking personal to me. So tell me, why me? What made you decide to come for me? To steal from me? I want to know so I can never do it again.”

I search her turbulent eyes, sagging a little against the door. “You might not believe me or understand it, but it’s the truth. We never meant for this to happen. We never meant to take you. You weren’t even supposed to be there. I promise you, Genevieve, whether you believe me or not, it wasn’t about you.”

Snarling, she rips away from me, taking the heat of her body with her and leaving me cold and bereft as she paces the room. She tugs at her hair and throws glares at me. I watch her, tracking her movements. I should leave it at that, since the others wouldn’t like me talking to her, but I can’t. I reach through that divide between us, offering her something, a rope to tug on, needing her to remain strong.

Her fury is better than her sadness.

“Your fiancé.”

She stills at my words, barely breathing. Her gaze lands on the wall and holds.

“Is he a good man?” She doesn’t answer, and I nod, looking out the window. “I didn’t think so.”

I turn away, about to leave, when her voice comes out small, and the loneliness that fills it has my heart skipping a beat.

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