"Don't make it sound like it's irrational that I don't want to plummet to my death from your stupid little plank."
"My stupid little plank?" he repeated, lips twitching.
"Besides, you're not the one in six-inch heels with balance issues." He snorted slightly, moving back toward me, shocking me by going down on his knees in front of me, reaching for one of my ankles and pulling like he wanted me to lift it. I tried to snatch it back, looking over my shoulder and knowing the people in the room behind could totally see us, could see him on his knees in front of me, grabbing on my leg. That was not to even mention the people below. "Stop it," I snapped quietly.
"Chill the fuck out. I'm taking your shoes off so you're not freaked out," he informed me, yanking my leg up, making me take a death grip on both rails at my sides as he ripped my shoe off. As soon as my bare foot touched down, I kicked out of the other one before he could grab that leg too. Apparently that was the wrong move because he angled his head up at me, brows raised. And, well, let's just say there was a tiny little thrill through my system at seeing him on his knees before me. "Not a bad view," he said, mind running in the same direction as mine. "Though, it'd be better naked."
"Get up," I hissed, taking a step back, trying to ignore the tingly feeling between my legs at his declaration.
He took his feet slowly, eyes pinned on mine. "Alright, let's go," he demanded, turning and walking along the catwalk, leaving me to follow behind. Which I did, ignoring the upside-down feeling in my belly and the spinning sensation in my head as he walked almost completely toward the other end of the catwalk. His focus was downward and I wanted to know what had his attention, and his shoulders tensing, his jaw tightening, but I couldn't bring myself to look down. "Here," he said, facing the railing, one hand on it, the other arm held out like he wanted me to move close by.
"Um. I think I'm good here," I said, keeping a death-grip on the railing while still trying to stay as far away from it as possible.
"Prue, here," he demanded, lunging out and grabbing my wrist, yanking me the rest of the way toward him.
"No, I..." I objected, voice shaking slightly as I tried to wrangle away.
"Stop," he commanded, but his voice was softer than I had ever heard it before. But that didn't take the douchebaggery out of the demand. Stop? Just stop being afraid of heights because he said so? Of all the arrogant... "Prue," he said, the sound of my name seeming to shiver off his tongue as his body shifted, one hand going on the railing on either side of my hips, caging me in, his entire body closing in behind mine. My immediate instinct was to jerk forward, but I was already too close to the railing. If I got any closer, I'd seriously risk falling over it. "Relax," he said and his voice was right in my ear. My belly did a little fluttery thing in response. "I'm not going to let you fall over."
"Why..." I started, shaking my head slightly as I swallowed hard. "What are we doing here?"
One of his hands settled on my hip, his fingers splaying across my belly slightly. The other arm raised off the railing, pointing down toward the side of the floor. "Look."
"I'm good. I really don't think looking down is a good idea at this point."
"I said I won't let you fall. Remember what I said about my word?"
It wasn't rhetorical. He wanted me to tell him. "That it's everything."
"Exactly. So just suck it up and look where I'm pointing already, yeah?"
I didn't want to. On principle. I wanted to ignore the demand. But that being said, he was a sadistic son of a bitch and if I refused, I had no doubt he'd keep me there the whole night until I did what he said. So I took a slow breath and, on the exhale, looked where he was pointing. At first glance, there seemed nothing interesting to note. He was pointing toward a blackjack table where there was a dealer, three people sitting to play, and four or five others just standing around. "I don't..." I started, but then I did. I saw. I saw and it was like a kick to the stomach. I actually gasped at the impact of it, slamming back into Byron's chest, shaking my head. "No..."
No freaking way.
No way was my father at the tables.
I should have known better than to expect him not to be. I really should have. It was a sickness. He couldn't help it. But maybe a part of me had been hoping he would take the whole situation with me being indebted to Byron as some sort of wake-up call.