Chapter Seven
Sebastian
Grace’s stare is unwavering as she waits for an answer, but she still manages to keep her emotions guarded. Beyond a glimmer of concern and a flicker of hope, I have no idea what she’s thinking, and I hate it.
I need to get this over with.
Get out of this fucking apartment.
“Fine.”
Her eyes widen a fraction as if surprised I agreed, even though she knew she had me by the balls. “Now, tell me who killed my parents.”
“That’s not the deal.” She tries to move forward, but Easton doesn’t budge. “I won’t talk until you uphold your end.”
“The deal was, you tell me who murdered my parents,” Isay, not able to stop the growl following my words this time. “I’ll get you your documents. Now talk.”
My patience is wearing thin.
“I can’t trust you. What if I tell you, and you still call the police or…” She doesn’t finish the thought, but her gaze flicks to Easton.
Jesus Christ.
This woman.
Sheis the one who stalked me for God knows how long.
Sheis the one with a plethora of photographs ofme.
Of my business.
She claims to know who killed my parents. All I have to go on is her word, and she doesn’t trustme.
Of fucking course.
I stand there for a long moment, Easton waiting for a direction from me. Breathing out a sigh, I give him a small nod.
He lingers on me for a moment, then steps back, releasing his hold on Grace. His unease makes it clear he doesn’t like what’s happening one bit.
Hitching her pack higher on her shoulders, she takes a hesitant step forward. When neither of us moves, she takes another step and slowly makes her way towards the bed.
Is she limping?
“What’s wrong with your leg?” I ask her as she sits down on the end of the bed, putting her backpack on the floor beside it.
“It’s nothing,” she says, still eyeing her bag.
“It’s something.” I move towards the bed, stopping in front of her.
“Really, there’s no problem. I’m fine,” she says, finally looking up at me. Her breath catches when I crouch down in front of her, but it rushes out in a hiss when I grab her left foot.
“Right. No problem.” I push up the end of her tight jeans and start undoing her laces. I can already see the streak of black and blue creeping past the edge of her shoe.
“What are you doing?” Her breath hitches, but she remains unmoving.
I don’t respond.
I don’t have an answer for what the hell I’m doing.