Lila frowned. “Did he say something?”
“He hasn’t said anything, but he knows. He’s got to understand what I did, what I—”
“Tristan.” She touched his arm, but he batted it away.
“I have to get the place fixed up for him. It’s a shithole.”
“Do you regret it? Would you take it back if you could? Would you have let Reaper stab me?”
“Oracle’s light, no.”
&
nbsp; She grabbed his waist, insistently this time, and slid her arms back around him. “Then stop.”
After several seconds, he sighed, loud and long, and dropped his head to her shoulder. “I killed him, Lila.”
“You saved my life.”
“I see him. I close my eyes, and I see him. That look.”
“He loaded that gun. He did it to himself.” Lila cupped his cheek. “Tristan, when’s the last time you got any sleep?”
“I’m not tired.”
“If you can’t remember, then it’s been too long.” She grabbed his hand, leading him to his room. He stood at the door awkwardly while she turned down his bed. “You need to sleep.”
“I’m not tired,” he said again.
“Fine. Stand there and watch me, then.” Lila kicked off her work boots and lifted her sweater over her head, tossing it on the dresser. The strap of her undershirt slid off her shoulder, and she slipped in between his sheets.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ve been up for days, catching up on reports, dealing with the Wilson estate, and coding a patch for Bullstow. I’m not due back in the security office until this afternoon, and I could use a nap,” she said, placing her palm on the dresser. “Are you in or not?”
Tristan looked back at the paint cans in the living room.
“It will all still be there when you wake up, Tristan. All of it.”
He stepped into the room at last, his t-shirt joining her sweater on the dresser.
Keep reading for a preview of the next book in the series: Stolen Lies!
Chapter 1
The only flaw in Lila’s plan was Tristan.
Again.
She cast a not-so careless eye toward the LeBeau militia gathered at the base of the auction house stairs. The dozen women and men tugged at the collars of their formal uniforms, the sweaty fabric chafing in the muggy afternoon. The LeBeau coat of arms, a scorpion with its stinger poised to strike, had been stitched in lavender on the breast of their summer-weight blackcoats, cut in ankle-length cotton rather than leather. The group chugged bottles of ice water, a balm against the late October heat wave, and fanned their coats to reveal tranq guns underneath. One of the militia whispered something. They all chuckled before separating once more to pace.
As the chief of her family’s militia, Lila had been party to such jokes for years. It was likely a barb against the paparazzi, or the so-called press behind the stanchions. Microphones in hand and cameras at the ready, they stood at attention while their flashing bulbs captured the scene. Of course, the joke might have been aimed at the heirs who flowed up the silver-carpeted stairs toward the auction house, wilting under their finery.
Predictably, the highborn had ignored the weather. The heirs wore their autumn dresses and well-tailored long coats while the men panted in their vests and coats and breeches, their cravats tied and pinned at their necks. Everyone wore their family colors. The highborn sparkled with jewels and sweat as they ran the gauntlet of press and photographers, vainly dabbing at their foreheads between photos and interviews, desperate to enter the cool lobby and the ballroom beyond.
And they all suffered.
All except Lila. She’d visited the family tailors, insisting they alter a dress from the year before. Obligingly, they’d scissored off half the blood-red fabric and dyed a pair of gloves to match. After all, she had to hide the stitches and bandages that crisscrossed her palms. She’d earned them the weekend before when she’d been trapped in the middle of a riot. Of course, few people knew the real story. She’d told everyone she’d been in a motorcycle accident. So far, everyone believed her.