Page 87 of Cruel Deception
“Yeah,” he said finally. He took a sip of his drink. “You were checking my iPad.”
My fork froze midway to my mouth.
His tone was quiet. Too quiet. But not violent.
“I was looking for anything... anything that could help me find my mother,” I admitted. “You said you wouldn’t help.”
“You invaded my privacy,” he replied smoothly.
“I’m sorry.”
He stood, lifting his empty plate. I rushed to help. “Leave it—I’ll do it.”
But he carried it anyway, walking away.
I stared down at my food. The same food I’d just complimented.
I couldn’t touch another bite.
Why did I feel sick?
Was it guilt? The timing? Or the fact that this conversation followed the one night that made me feel whole?
“Why aren’t you eating?” he asked suddenly.
I looked up. He was there again.
“I think I’m full,” I said softly.
He walked over, dragging a chair closer to mine. When he sat, his scent wrapped around me again—dark, clean, expensive. It made my spine tighten.
“Looking through my device won’t get you what you want,” he said.
“I know.”
His hand slid under my chin, tilting my face up. His thumb brushed my bottom lip, soft but firm.
“You’re coming with me tonight.”
My brows lifted. “Where?”
“To the underground race.”
That stunned me. “The one you compete in?”
“I made it to the top five,” he said. “Quarter-finals are tonight.”
I blinked, surprised. Elated, almost. This—this was the first time he was voluntarily telling me something about his world. A glimpse behind the curtain. Not through force, but invitation.
I smiled faintly. “You’re supposed to be mad I snooped.”
“I was.” He stood again, then ruffled my hair, fingers rough but weirdly gentle.
The touch startled me. My heart skipped, and something fluttered in my belly—light and warm and completely unwelcome. Butterflies. Real ones. As if that single, casual touch had unraveled something tightly wound in me.
“Get changed. Sportwear. You’ll want to blend in.”
He walked out.
