“I don’t get jealous. I’m assuming you do, since you’re all over Giselle at any opportunity you have, trying to mark your territory like a fucking dog.”
“You’re kind of an asshole. Has anyone ever told you that?”
I didn’t dignify him with a response. I only glared. Glared and tensed my fingers, curling them into knuckles. Oh, how easy it would be to toss the round table between us aside and punch him right in the gut, do it so hard all the air would be swept out of his lungs. I’d crack a fucking rib, and every time he breathed in, he’d feel it, poking at his lungs. A present from me, something to remember this conversation by.
But I didn’t do that. As much as I wanted to, I resisted, and Luca laughed again, as if he found so much mirth in this, in me possibly being jealous. Just because I was a little envious didn’t mean I wanted the world to know it.
“Well, as stimulating as this conversation is, I’m feeling a little thirsty.” Luca slid off the booth. “I’d ask you if you wanted anything, but I reserve favors for friends.” With a smile that still strode the line between a grin and a smirk, he left me alone, disappearing down the stairs.
I let him have the last word. We didn’t have to be friends. In fact, it was better not to be. All those idiots downstairs, dancing and having a good time with the Black Hand heirs, were kidding themselves. Whoever lost would be itching for some retribution. It wasn’t going to be a clean, fair competition—and Giselle was evidence enough of that.
She’d gotten shot. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that whoever shot her was someone who wanted to get her father out of the running. You had to have an heir; that was the single rule here. If Giselle died, Miguel would be fucked.
One of these people might be the reason Giselle was shot. They might’ve taken things into their own hands and gone after her, followed her that night to the Playground and waited for her to come back out, shot her when she was alone and the timing was right.
Whoever had done it, they weren’t a good shot. They’d missed. They could’ve hit an artery, caused her to bleed out in less than a minute. They could’ve shot her in the heart or in the head. There were many, many different ways they could’ve taken her out. Hell, they could’ve made sure she was dead and did a double-tap.
But they didn’t, and that led me to think it wasn’t someone who was used to shooting or killing. Definitely not someone like me, who could kill without blinking. An amateur.
I wanted to find out who shot Giselle probably as badly as she and Miguel did, only I wanted to discover their identity because I had the strange urge to protect that girl. She didn’t need a hero, and if I was out in the open about it, she’d probably laugh at me and tell me to get lost—which was why I couldn’t tell her. I had to do some digging on my own, somehow.
I couldn’t say how long I sat there, thinking about what I’d do to the person who’d shot Giselle, but it was at least a few minutes. The songs played by the DJ changed, the beat becoming faster paced. I ran a hand down the side of my face, wondering if I should just get up and leave, but right then, it was like fate had other plans.
Giselle returned to the upper level of the club, and she stuck close to the railing of the balcony, peering out at the dancing crowd below. She didn’t come over to me. She looked… sad, almost. Anxious. I guess I could understand why she would feel like that.
I shouldn’t get up. I should just let her be. Going to her right now, talking with her, would be a bad, bad idea. But as I stared at her, as my gaze traveled along her back, taking in the white dress she wore, I couldn’t help but feel a similar hunger deep within my gut. The more I looked at her, the more I wanted to clear the air between us.
It could continue to be a secret. I could never tell her. We could continue to go on like this for infinity, until someone was chosen for the Hand and everyone else was forced to go home. There was absolutely no reason for me to get up, go over to her, and talk to her.
Except that’s exactly what I decided to do.
What could I say? When it came to Giselle, it was difficult to think straight. It was like the girl had wormed her way into my head, into my heart, into every muscle in my body, like she commanded me. No other woman had ever come close to having such power over me, so I had no idea how this happened.
I got up, sticking my hands in my pockets, feeling the set of leather gloves in my right pocket, remembering how she’d run away from me that night, left me handcuffed to the bedpost. If I would’ve known what would happen mere moments after she ran away, I would’ve tried harder to stop her. Hindsight was twenty-twenty, as they always said.
Walking up behind her, I took my time in approaching her. She probably didn’t hear me walk up; the music was a good cover. Not as loud up here as it was down there, and yet it still pounded through your body and your heart. When I was five feet away from her, she bent her head down, her posture crumpled. Giselle looked… tired. From where I stood, anyway, the girl looked tired.
I imagined she was, and seeing her like this did give me some pause—if only for a moment.
Taking another step closer to her, I said. “I was hoping you would come back up here.” Her posture immediately stiffened the moment she heard me, and I added, “You and I have a few things to talk about, princess.”
Princess. It’s what I’d called her in the Playground. At the time, I’d been too drawn to her, too blinded by her to realize how apropos the nickname truly was. It fit her so well, regardless of how much she probably hated it.
She whirled around, looking like she was instantly infuriated by my words. I didn’t flinch under her glare, though I was certain a lesser man would. Fortunately for us both, I was not one of those men.
Her dark eyes widened as she stared at my face. It almost looked like she wanted to deny what she’d heard, like she thought she could play dumb. I wondered if that’s what she’d do, or if she’d own it. Unless she had a whole army of men calling her princess—which could be the case, I supposed.
Giselle’s expression turned cold, and though her gaze wandered to my chest, taking my stance in, those eyes flicked back up to me as her jaw set. “What did you just say to me?”
“Playing dumb is beneath you,” I told her, taking another step toward her.
Her back hit the railing, and she was as straight as a rod. Giselle almost looked uncomfortable between my body and the metal railing, which was a far cry from how she’d been with me in the Playground. Sure, she’d been uncomfortable at first, but she’d managed to get over it—or, at least she seemed like she’d gotten over it.
The sounds she’d made while my fingers worked at her. The way her slick had tasted on those same fingers. My cock twitched in remembrance, and I had to fight with myself to keep it in check. Getting a rock-hard cock right now would not be good.
“I don’t—” Giselle inhaled when I took another step closer, my front pressing against hers. I set both arms on the railing, one on each side of her. Now pinned to the railing, she had nowhere to go. Even in heels, she was so small. Small, slender, short; and yet she fit so well against my body.
“Or do you only want to be touched when you’re wearing black and in the Playground?” I asked, my head hanging low, holding her stare hostage. I should step away from her; she wore a different mask when she was in white. I wasn’t stupid. I knew wearing black was yet another way she tried to take back control.