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“Why didn’t you just kill me when I was already out of it? I would have.”
I miss the fire in his voice, it was a lot less intimidating than the frigid tone. The unmoving muscles, so stiff—like a threat of what is going to happen to me.
“Let me explain. I didn’t want to get in trouble with the police.” No explanations are much easier thanpotentially deadlyconfrontations.
“They are a lot nicer than I am.” He lightly oscillates the riding crop, like the pendulum of a clock, each word spoken at the highest point of swing. “A little less creative with their methods.”
Knee to knee. Side to side, creating a harmony between the intervals of rest and motion. My breaths sync with the movements and find peace in the period—the pauses in speaking, the ones in time. The singular moments of the in-between: a breath, a blink, a heartbeat.
Mine. His. The innate rather than acquired. Together they lull me into a false sense of security. Maybe it’s the hope speaking or the invisible force sucking me into his gravity, but I stay, not that I have much choice.
One at a time, I slide my feet out of the heels, just in case. The movement of my legs stops the pendulum. Stops the peace.
Styx steps forward, knocking the flight out of me, and slides the crop between my knees. Holding it at the bend, he circles the leather strap before running it down to my toes. “You aren’t thinking of running are you?”
“No,” I whisper and curl my fingers over the damp cushion. Not due to me, I had just finished steaming them and disinfecting the bookshelves.
“Good.” The crop rides up to my parted thigh. “Cause the time to run was when I was dying.”
I reach out and snap my legs shut, stopping the leather from touching my apex. “You should know what running is like. You’re good at that.”
He smirks and eyes the crop between my hand. I fist it in case he decides to swing at me. “I also know what stealing is like, and know better than to do it from somebody dangerous.”
“Right... That’s why you robbed your mom blind.... before you—” My fingers slice through the air in a running motion to finish my point. Leaning forward, leather firmly secure, I ask without a single stammer, “Is that smart or a cowar—.”
One rough tug, and I slide forward, completely losing my balance. My ass would’ve hit the ground had my palms not flown out and latched onto something sturdy. Something attached.
Thighs. Face currently in crotch.
Ingenerously largecrotch.
Styx clears his throat. “That’s a great position to start your graveling, Doc.”
“For what?” I bite back, annoyed at the tone, the posture, the way he currently looks down his nose at me, like I’m beneath him when he’s the dirt bag. These damn arrogant men. “For helping you?”
“Really?” The crop lands on my cheek, gently. Daring me to say something other than a confession, but he’s not going to like what I have to say.
“You’re going to hit me?” I ask as I wiggle around to ease the pressure off my knees. Getting up from this position, not so easy without a nose kick to the groin.
“It’s a possibility.”Maybe he deserves that punch in the nuts.
The instrument moves and I flinch.
“Shit.” The crop falls to his side and he offers me a free hand, which I don’t take.
With a hand on the cushion, I narrow my eyes at him and his attitude whiplash. “You come in here to threaten me for stealing your money and a pack of tissues?” I purposely leave out the drugs to evaluate what he knows. “You should be thanking me,” I continue as I come into a standing position. “Not just for saving your life, but for saving your mother.”
His face hardens and he steps back, breaking eye contact.
“You have no clue, do you?”
He has nothing to say because I’m right: when it comes to Mama Rosa, Styx knows shit.
For that reason, I face her son with all the sincerity in the world. “Your mother had a massive stroke.”
Fingers rap around my hair so fast I can’t struggle against his tight squeeze. He steps forward, knocking me against the couch. “What did you say?”
When he exhales, his hand moves and I can feel the weaker strands at the back tearing from their roots.
