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The sound of voices reaches us. I blink, glance around, taking in the trees behind us, the grass next to us, the spikes of pain that shoot up my knees from the prolonged contact with the pavement.
He jerks his chin. "Get up."
I use his thigh for support and haul myself up. The voices grow closer, and his lips curl. He pulls me close, then presses a kiss to my forehead. I tremble, not sure what he’s doing, certain that the tenderness in his gesture is all fake. Sure enough, he nods at the couple who pass by. "Nice evening for a walk, Lord Balmoral."
"Can’t blame you for not wanting to be inside, ol’ chap. I, myself, prefer a ramble to being stuck with strangers."
"Oh, hush, William," the woman with him admonishes. "Sorry to have intruded on your evening." Their footsteps fade, and Cade releases me so suddenly, I stumble.
He looks at my features, then jerks his chin toward the door through which we came. "I need you to go check in on my sister."
I blink. "S…sister?"
"Zara Chopra, the woman I was dancing with."
"Zara Chopra?" I frown. "That woman you were dancing with is your sister?"
"That’s what I said, isn’t it?"
“You have a sister?”How did I not know that?
He scowls. “Don’t make me repeat myself, doll.”
Ugh. I hate it when he calls me doll. It makes me feel cheap and like a gangster’s moll, which is, no doubt, why he does it. And I heard him the first time.But it doesn’t stop me from asking again, “You want me to check on your...sister?”
His brows draw down further. I’m sure he’s going to snap at me, but he seems to rein in his temper. "Yes, I want you to check in on her,” he says slowly.
“Wh-why don’t you go in and check on her?”
“Because—” He draws in a breath. “Because if I go in, she’ll bite my head off. So, you need to go in and calm her down first."
"You want me to calm her down?"
"You going to parrot everything I say?"
I shake my head.
"So, get gone."
A hot sensation builds in my chest. Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and I blink them away. "What about your eye?"
"My eye?" He seems taken aback. "What about my eye?"
"Does it hurt?"
He touches the skin below his right eye and winces. "I’ll live."
"You need to get it looked at."
"And you need to do as I tell you."
"Only if you promise to get it looked at."
"Your fake concern doesn’t do anything for me," he scoffs.
"It’s not fake, it’s—"
He glares at me, and the words seem to stick in my throat. Of course, he doesn’t believe me. Not that I blame him. But after what just happened between us, I thought we were communicating on some level… And we did. Only that connection doesn’t seem to have transferred over to words. Not yet, that is.
