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Then he looked down at his bare feet, and my gaze followed. My breath hitched in my throat. I’d never noticed them before—since I hadn’t exactly spent a lot of time staring at his feet.
There were burn scars–patches of pale white, pearly skin, or ridged, reddened strips. I’d noticed a few scars on his body, similar ones, but given how much the man liked fire, it hadn’t surprised me then.
“He liked the feet best,” Brute said, and he shrugged. “Probably because he got to picture you having to walk on them after, reminded with every step.”
“He”? Who washe”? And then it hit me. “Your father.”
He nodded. “Mean son of a bitch.”
“That’s how he punished you? As a kid, I mean.”
He nodded again. “I got burned plenty. Never let him touch Leeri, though,” he said, but he didn’t sound angry. If anything, he sounded relieved that he’d been able to keep her safe.
I think, in a way, he’d made peace with whatever the mean son of a bitch had done to him. This wasn’t about revenge. This was something else. “That’s why you love fire so much. You won’t shy away from it because you refuse to let him win.”
“Seems you’re pretty good at figuring me out, darling.”
Maybe in some ways, but in others, there were things I’d missed. He’d seemed, if not indifferent, then distant from his sister ever since he’d found out what she was. Now though, it became clear to me that it was affecting him a whole lot more than he’d been letting on.
“You took care of her. You loved her.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I did. Still do.”
I looked around the room, but it wasn’t a room. It was some private place he’d let me inside; not just a private place inside his home, but a private place inside him.
I’m not sure when I’d crossed the room, but apparently, I had. I was standing right in front of him, forced to look up to hold his gaze.
“My father’s a good man—the best of men—but I don’t think he’s my real father.” The words just spilled out. Maybe I was just trying to keep a level playing field; he’d offered up part of himself, and now I had to do the same or else tip the scales.
“Enzo?” Brute said, still just looking at me.
I nodded. For some reason, it didn’t surprise me that he already knew.
“That’s what last night was about?” he asked. “That’s why he wanted to talk to you?”
I shrugged. “He didn’t come out and say it, but I don’t think it’s just in my head.”
I waited to feel the playing field level out. He’d offered up something, and so had I. But it didn’t feel level. It didn’t feel like we were standing on a playing field at all. Whatever this was, it was foreign.
“I don’t know what we’re doing here, Brute.”
“We’re doing more than what either of us thought we wanted,” he said like it was no big deal.
My throat felt dry. I swallowed, but it didn’t help. “I don’t know if that’s what I want.”
He smiled. “You’re a smart girl; you’ll figure it out. Until then, we’ll just keep pretending to fuck each other out of our systems.”
“Pretending?”
He reached out, grabbed hold of the sheet that was covering me, and yanked it away. “You know it’s never going to happen, darling.”
Yeah, that’s what scared me.
Chapter Thirty
Brute
We’d ended up in my bedroom again. My bedroom. I wondered just how quickly it would send Greta running if she discovered she was the only woman who’d ever been in this bedroom. It wasn’t something I had any plans of telling her anytime soon.
