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“Just me?” I ask. Annoyance fills my features as I give him my best leveling stare. “Your face looks awful.”
“Well shit, go easy on my ego. There goes my modeling career.”
“I think models typically have to be more alluring than you. Not many people will pay to have you mean mug them all day.”
A practiced half smile tips his lips.
I hate that I can’t tell if his smile is real or fake anymore.
Loudly the metal can of cool whip clinks against the shelves in the fridge as he puts it away. It’s one of the only noises, apart from our breathing, in the house. The cooks, maids, and other staff are sleeping in their quarters. We are the only two around.
My hand drifts to touch the scabs, again. “I hope I won’t scar.”
“You won’t. It’s too shallow a cut. He learned early on what scars and doesn’t scar.”
I think of Ronan’s hands. My eyes betraying me as I watch how the tattoos are stretched across Knox’s knuckles.
“You can look, I don’t care,” he whispers in such a low tone that the sound of it seems to feather walk across my bare arms in a trembling shiver.
But he looks like he cares. He looks away as if he, himself, does not want to look at any of the wounds on his perfectly imperfect body. Nonetheless he holds his hands out toward me.
On quiet steps I close the space between us, taking his hands in mine. My thumbs run over the white scars that are raised on the skin. What did that cruel man do to him? What happened to his hands?
One rough calloused palm releases from me and he reaches up, stroking his thumb over my jaw then nudges my chin up.
“You’re talking, again.”
I swallow the lump in my throat.
“What pulled you out of it?” When he grazes the corner of my lip, he stops the gentle strokes across my face.
Blood rushes to my cheeks, only causing the cut to sting more as I try to pull away from his grasp. He holds my chin firmly.
“Father said you were indecent. Whoring. Unlikely the entirety of the story, but I’m curious.”
I reach up, pulling his hand away from me, stepping backwards. “I don’t think it’s a story you really want to hear.”
He stares at me, waiting with true curiosity now. Two pools of brown caramel become narrow slits as he watches me.
“Was it Reed?” The words rush out of him in one all too fast question. “Do you like Reed?”
Do I like Reed? Oh God, where do I even begin?
“Well, Landon was there.” I want the words to come out strong, confident. I have nothing to be ashamed of. Yet, they still come out as a murmur.
I wish you had been there, also. The sentence echoes in my mind but never becomes vocal.
His eyelashes flutter. Displeasure becomes apparent on him as his lips curl downward, his face flushed red, his mouth parts only to firmly press back together again.
“It’s not like you care. You left me alone in that basement for three days.” I take a deep breath desperate to calm the now unsteady beating of my heart. “Three. Days.” I bite out.
I’m not sure what I want from him. Or why the hell I came down here looking for him in the first place. Why can’t I just let sleeping dogs lie?
All the things between us, I just need to let it go.
He opens his mouth, his face slowly fading back to his normal bronze tone, his eyes becoming a little softer. At this moment some strange unrecognizable part of me wants to dare him. Dare him to say that he cares. Dare him to admit that he cares for me.
That I’m more than his “sister.”
