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Surprise, then annoyance crosses his face. “Don’t apologize, Lyla. About anything, but especially about that.”
“You killed a killer, not an innocent person. It’s not for me to judge you for it.”
Nick’s lips twist into a smirk. “I thought you were an atheist.”
“I am. I’m not talking about God. I’m not saying youwillbe judged by anyone.” I take a deep breath. “Just that it wasn’t my place to.”
I don’t share the real reason I said it in the first place. IwantedNick to touch me that night. The thought that his hands had been covered in blood a few seconds earlier didn’t bother me, and the realization it didn’t bother me terrified me. Because if I couldn’t reject him in such an extreme moment—a clear example of why we would never ever work—everything else would be quicksand.
And here I am, sinking.
“You’re a good dancer.” I say it as a distraction.
Nick eyes me before he responds, letting me know he realizes that. That’s the problem—he always notices far too much. Sees what most people miss.
“I’m good at a lot of things,” he finally replies.
I roll my eyes. “Not modesty.”
A tiny smile plays on Nick’s lips. “My mom loved dancing. She was a ballerina. After she married my father, she stopped performing. But I’d see her dance sometimes, when my father wasn’t around.”
“He didn’t like her dancing?”
“He didn’t see any point to art.”
“That’s a sad way to live,” I say softly.
“You’re right. It is.”
“So, dancing reminds you of your mother?”
“It reminds me of the etiquette lessons my mother forced on us to make up for the disappointment of not having a daughter.”
“Does that mean you don’t like dancing?”
Nick is a puzzle. I shouldn’t be trying to put the pieces together, to understand the whole picture instead of judging the parts I’ve seen.
“I hate it,” he answers. Then, his arms tighten.
I can feel the tendons in his forearms flex through the thin material of my dress, and I shiver without meaning to.
“Are you cold?”
“No.” My reply comes without thinking.
I feel him tense as my response registers. “I don’t hate dancing with you,” he says, glancing down so I can see the sincerity on his face.
I pull in a deep breath, flooding my lungs with oxygen I hope will chase away everything I’m trying to ignore. “Don’t say stuff like that,” I whisper.
We’re in the middle of a crowded room, but it feels like the world has narrowed to the two of us and nothing else.
The tenderness in Nick’s expression melts away, replaced by frozen stoicism. “Don’t ask questions then. I told you I wouldn’t lie.”
We spend the rest of our dance in silence. When it ends, Nick spins and stalks toward the bar.
I want to shout at his back. To ask him why he’s making this so difficult. Why he says perfect things yet comes home, covered in blood. Why he’s the villain and the prince in my fairy tale.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
