Page 71 of The Golden Hour

“Sparkling water, wine, or liquor?”

A shot of something strong sounds magical, but I also don’t want to pass out in twenty minutes. “Wine, please.”

“Coming right up.”

I wander through the space, drifting past an elegant seating area, dining table, a console with a beautiful record player and saliva-inducing record collection, and admire several beautiful, bold pieces of art. On the other side of the kitchen is a bedroom—I can glimpse dark bedding on a massive bed.

I stall beside one section of the wall where a giant cross leans. I almost ask if the owner is very religious—then I see the cuffs. Blushing at my own naiveté, I spin and almost knock the wine glasses from Finn’s hands.

His eyes twinkle at me. “Never seen one of those before, have you?”

I take a gulp of wine, not tasting it. My second sip is more measured—it’s excellent.

“Definitely not. I mean, I kind of understand the appeal—allowing yourself to surrender control in a safe way—but the only way someone would get me on there is kicking and screaming. I don’t like being restrained. Or confined. It’s, um, an old fear.”

Locked doors. Sightless dolls as company.

I turn away, embarrassed, but Finn captures my free hand in his before I can flee. “Hey, don’t hide from me. I want to know about you. Everything about you.”

I meet his gaze with effort, unsteady even though I’m wearing flats. Maybe it’s the wine on an empty stomach, but I know it’s more. It’s him, blue eyes fixed on mine, frank with interest and something else. A darker current.

I’ve never had a man look at me with such raw possessiveness. Like I belong to him. It fills me with equal parts fear and longing.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I murmur, the honesty nearly splitting me apart. “My only boyfriend was murdered by my sister”—I almost choke on the word—“and I’ve been running since I was nineteen. I don’t know anything about normal relationships. Is that even what this is? What are we, Finn?”

I bite my lips shut.

A smile flickers over his face. “I love it when you blush.”

Releasing my hand, his fingers graze my hot cheek. “I don’t know how to answer your question, but I’ll try. I’ve been single-minded for so long, focused on preparing and waiting for the perfect opportunity to make the Avellinos pay for what they did to my family…” His fingertip traces my lower lip, igniting nerve endings all over my body. “All I know now is that I want you, Callisto Avellino.”

More questions slip out, high-pitched, riding the wings of insecurity. “Because we have shared trauma? Or because it’s a different type of revenge against my family?”

He can’t actually want me, can he?

“Oh, princess.” His smile grows, edged with that same darkness.

My fingers tremble on the stem of my wine glass, wishing to touch him. Here, now, with no great threat hanging over us, no bones in the dirt or adrenaline to level my inhibitions, I wish I were brave enough to show him how much I’ve come to need him. Rely on him. But he still hasn’t answered my questions, and doubt keeps me rooted to the spot.

Finally, he says, “At the risk of sounding like a perv, I’ve wanted you in some capacity since I was eleven and saw you for the first time at Rafael’s sentencing. You looked so lost and out of place. I wanted to protect you and didn’t know how to handle that. I decided to be angry instead.”

So he was in the courtroom that day. I try to imagine Finn at eleven, having recently lost his father, and my heart squeezes.

He takes my hand again, threading our fingers together. “I’m so sorry for how I treated you in Solstice Bay. I was a complete ass. I guess in some ways I was eleven again—I couldn’t reconcile how I felt about you with how I thought I should feel. If that makes sense.”

I nod, a delicate hope blooming inside me. “It does. But you forgot to apologize for blackmailing me.”

He winces. “I was never going to blackmail you. It was a stupid, spur-of-the-moment idea because I wanted to pull your clothes off like a caveman in that fucking closet and I hated it. I hated that I was so affected by you, that I wanted you, that you’d been under my skin for years. And that you were braver than I’d ever been.”

“And now?” I whisper.

My pulse skitters wildly. I’m afraid of dropping my wine, but before the thought has fully formed, Finn takes my glass and sets both on a nearby table. He moves close, until our chests are a hairsbreadth apart. His body radiates heat and life and strength, a vital vibration that calms me as much as it arouses me.

Cupping my face, his fingers sink into my hair and clench lightly. I almost moan.

“I know who you are,” he murmurs, then kisses me softly. “And who you are has nothing to do with your name.” Another kiss, long enough to curl my toes. “You are brave. Stunning. Smart. Sexy. Kind. And I know you don’t see it, but you’re strong. So fucking strong, because despite your family and everything you’ve been through, you are good.”

I don’t know I’m crying until he kisses my tears, then my mouth. I taste the salt and more—the truth. His faith in me. My forgiveness of myself. And desire, burning bright and pure, unclouded by the past and future.

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