Page 70 of The Black Table
“You…” He blinks. Like he’s calculating. Seems to change tack. “You didn’t wear that to the formal hall, I hope.” He eyes me up and down.
“No,” I say. “I…” I don’t even know where to start. I need another slug of caffeine to get my brain working. “I wore the red one,” I say, “with the lace.”
“Mmm,” Kai says, nodding his approval. “I know.”
He pulls out a mug of coffee that must be his, takes a long drink, and fishes a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, sticking one between his teeth.
“Relax,” he says, “I won’t light it. So long as you’re here, anyway.”
He pins it between his index and middle fingers, rests his hand on the counter. Almost as if he’s waiting for an explanation.
“I went,” I say, “and then I ran out, and I tried to go back to my room and…”
Suddenly it all pours out of me. The dinner, no one speaking to me, Elena disappearing and coming back, the drinking game, getting sick, passing out?—
And then I pause, realizing I’ve said too much. But Kai holds up a hand.
“You don’t need to explain,” he says. “If you’re here for innocent reasons, I’ll take it on good faith. Lord knows we’re all about that.”
It hits me. He’s not pressing me, not judging, letting me have my own space in this room, even when I’m very much not supposed to be here.
And it warms me inside, just a little bit.
At least until a heavy tattoo of footsteps pounds closer from the living room.
“What did you do?” It’s Kingston—his expression cold and dangerous, levied right at Kai. He sees me, I can tell he sees me, and yet he won’t look at me.
Instead, he’s taking measured, fury-filled steps across the kitchen toward Kai.
I’ve never seen Kingston like this, never seen him feel any kind of strong emotion. It’s disarming, so disarming I almost forget that I’m very much not supposed to be here—and I don’t even know how I got here in the first place.
“Are you serious?” Kai scoffs. “For once, nothing?—”
“Don’t!” Kingston growls. “Don’t lie to me this time. I know that you?—”
“Okay,” Kai says, putting his palms up. “Okay, I should admit—the charges to daddy dearest’s card? Those were mine.”
Daddy dearest? They’re…brothers?I dart my eyes from one tothe next. They don’t really look anything alike, other than being tall, strong, and white. The similarities end there, especially temperamentally.
“I don’t even care about that,” Kingston mutters. “That’s his problem to deal with—with you. I meant her.” Now his eyes turn to me; that warm, enveloping stare paradoxically freezes me in place.
“It wasn’t him,” I say. I don’t know Kai well, but he did spend God knows how many thousands of dollars of his father’s money on me, and I don’t like people being falsely accused of things besides.
“Wasn’t it?” Kingston says, pivoting back to Kai. “So what, she just decided to break in in the middle of the night? Sure, a likely story.”
“It wasn’t him,” I say, my voice harsh and loud in my raw throat.
Kingston and Kai both stare at me now, and I shiver, unused to being held in place by two men who look like that, who look at me like that. Kingston blinks, presses his lips together, folds his arms.
“Then, what are you doing here? Pardon my asking.”
“Hang on, hang on,” comes a voice from outside the room. Another set of footsteps—a quicker clip, almost panicked. Lanz rushes in, breathless, his dark hair sticking at all angles, bare-chested and in a pair of sweatpants. I’m so astonished I forget to look away, out of modesty.
And I have to say, I never thought of fencing as a sport with impressive physique behind it. But Lanz—Lanz looks good. Not absolutely jacked, but long, lean muscles carved from his shoulders down to the flare of his waist, the V just disappearing into the top of his gray sweatpants. Gray sweatpants. I look down at my legs. They’re identical. They could be a uniform, I suppose, but?—
“It was me,” Lanz pants. “I—it’s a long story.”
“I believe we’ve got time,” Kai interjects mildly, picking up his coffee.
