Page 89 of The Pawn

Hatred pulses in me, making my cheeks flush and sending warmth to my fingers and toes. "I can dance, you fuckface."

Cole chuckles. "That's more familiar. If you're not scared, put your hand in mine, and your fingers on my shoulder. I promise it'll be over with quickly." As an afterthought, he adds, "People are watching, Brenna, so try not to stab me. I've heard you carry a knife."

I reluctantly do as he says and follow his lead, partially because it's getting awkward not dancing, but also because I'm insatiably curious. This'll be the first time we've really had a conversation since the night of the Hallow's Eve Festival.

"Who told you that I carry a knife? Wait, let me guess—your little friend Hass."

"Hass isn'tmyfriend." Cole leads me effortlessly in a spin, along with the rest of the room. All the blue bloods seem to know this slow waltz, and I have to admit that the steps are simpler with his fingers guiding mine and his warm hand on my waist. "Hass and Lukas used to be friends. They spent some time at the same British boarding schools. But then things, shall we say, changed."

"How?"

"That's his business."

I frown. "You and your friends sure do like to gossip just enough to whet the appetite, but not enough to sate it. Why bother bringing part of a story up when you won't make it to the ending?"

He raises a brow at me. "Who else haswhettedyour appetite for gossip, little snake?"

"Lukas. He said there were some things only you could tell me."

"Ask me, then. I'm an open book."

Somehow I doubt that. Even his journal only has passing mentions of his life, mostly concentrated on schoolwork and his girlfriend. It's like he expected it to be found and read.

But if he's offering information, then I'm going to ask for more. "Apparently something happened between you and Chrissy Lakewood."

"I think you mean Leila Sanders," he says. "Or didn't she tell you her real name?"

"I thought you were joking when you said she changed her name."

He shakes his head, green eyes dancing. "I never kid about these things. If you'd stuck around to ask questions instead of climbing into that tree like it was your business, maybe you would understand why I loathe that dreadful girl."

"Tell me now. Make me understand."

A shadowed expression passes over his face, and for a moment I almost think he might leave me in the middle of the dance floor. Instead he tells me a story.

"I have a sister. She was sick when she was little, so sick even my parents—who have every resource imaginable at their disposal—were afraid that she would die. But she didn't. She got better." His voice grows soft. "She's witty, talented, bright, and absolutely perfect in every way."

I'm the one who adds, "And she's deaf."

"Yes. That's part of her perfection, you see." His hand tightens on my fingers briefly. "About four years ago, Leila Christine Lakewood-Sanders was up to no good in my parent's vacation house. My sister saw her steal liquor from my parents' bar—a particularly meaningful bottle of scotch that was my great-grandfather's dying gift to my mother. So Katherine told my parents about it."

It's not hard, for some reason, to imagine little twelve-year-old Chrissy stealing booze. "And? What happened?"

"She was banned from the property for a year. A fair judgment. But apparently she didn't like that, so she snuck up on my sister when she was by the pool, took her hearing aids, and shoved her into the water. Katherine was only nine years old at the time."

I suck in a startled breath, but he's not done. There's more to the story.

"Because she was scared, my sister screamed for help. Her voice is perfect, but some people say otherwise." There's a swift note of condemnation in his voice for anyone who might dare insult his little sister. "All the other girls at the pool party called her slurs and mocked her. At school, for months afterwards, they imitated her voice. Up to then she'd been speaking through a sign language interpreter and taking speech lessons at home, in private, but she gave up the entire idea of talking from then on, and my parents just... let her. Now she only speaks to one person: me."

My heart hurts more than I could've imagined before this story began, and I find myself staring straight up into his startling green eyes. "I'm sorry."

"You should be. I was going to leave her purse up there for hours."

There's a note of humor in his voice, but I can hear other things, like the kind of anger that doesn't die easily. An anger I feel in myself as well, raging hot as a fire.

I'm about to say something else, but the song ends, and our first dance is over.

I have no reason to stay here in his arms.

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