Page 148 of Salvatore

“Not exactly… I found her days ago.”

His expression regains an edge of contempt.

I glance away, shame coating me like a second skin.

“What do you mean?” He dumps the washcloth on the vanity and guides me to face him.

“I’ve been going down to see her every night. We talk for hours.”

Those dark eyes turn stormy, the fury in them making me wither.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “It seemed real at the time.”

“What seemed real?”

“Her friendship.” I swallow over my drying throat. “The way she cared.”

“What did you tell her?” he demands.

“You were all we had in common. And I remembered Bishop calling you a momma’s boy, so I thought it would be okay to talk about you…”

“And?”

“I overexaggerated a little. Maybe even sprinkled a bit of fiction in there.”

His expression turns apocalyptic—cold eyes, hard lips.

“I told her how we met. And the whole French martini pick-up line, which led into the kiss. Then she started asking questions, and the conversation evolved over the space of a few nights. She made some accurate assumptions?—”

“What kind of assumptions?”

“She asked if we’d slept together.” I cringe through the admission.

His nostrils flare.

I seriously hate disappointing him. “Tonight I went down there to tell her I was leaving. And with the hormones and the craziness of the situation, when she offered to give me a hug I couldn’t resist the slightest glimpse of maternal comfort.”

“Then she stabbed you?”

Liquid blurs my vision again. “She held me against the bars and didn’t stop attacking me until I gouged at her eyes.”

He turns his face away, the harshness of his features seeming so much worse in profile view.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I know the two of you are close. I didn’t want to hurt her, but?—”

He hangs his head. “This isn’t on you.”

“—she thinks we’re together. She said she knows who I am.”

His gaze snaps to mine. “She said that?”

I give a hesitant nod. “She called me a Latina whore and told me I was just like your sister.”

I’d thought he was angry before. That the harsh lines in his features were the epitome of his rage. But I was wrong. Whatstares back at me now is Salvatore at his most temperamental. He vibrates with fury, his attempt to hide it flimsy at best.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” I ask.

“No, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He straightens, lying right to my face. “I just need to speak to her.”

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