Page 30 of Velvet Betrayal
After all the years, all the disasters, this was the only thing she’d ever really wanted from me—not safety, not comfort, just proof, over and over, that no one else could take her apart and put her back together the way I could.
“I’m happy to remind you how much of a maniac I am whenever you want, sweetheart.”
“Ha-ha,” she deadpanned. She pulled herself together, tying the robe, then caught my eye in the mirror. For a second, the old fondness was there, the affection that always hovered just beneath the sarcasm.
She ran a hand through her hair. “You’re never going to let me go, are you?”
“Nah,” I said. “Well, maybe. If I know you and Rosie are safe, I’ll think about it.”
“That’s not good enough.”
I shrugged. “I know. That’s my brand. But I promise I’ll keep you safe. No matter what.”
And I meant it.
Even if it cost me everything.
Ruby
He was gone when I woke up. The sunlight was already knifing through the curtains, and the other side of the bed was cold—like he’d been gone for hours, not minutes. My head throbbed, a hangover of adrenaline and whatever else had kept me up half the night. I stared at the ceiling, waiting for my courage to catch up with my body.
Rosie was already awake, of course. She’d raided the mini fridge and was perched in a chair by the window, legs tucked up, drinking orange juice straight from the bottle. Her hair was a disaster, her cheeks sticky. She looked like a wild animal and a princess at the same time.
I forced myself out of bed, pulled on my leggings, and padded into the bathroom. The robe I’d worn was stiff with dried sweat and sex—disgusting, but also weirdly sentimental. I half-expected to see last night’s version of myself in the mirror, haunted and furious. Instead, even with the bags under my eyes, my skin looked almost…luminous. Like maybe I was still alive after all.
“Don’t eat too much, sweetheart. We’re going to meet my brother for breakfast,” I heard Kieran say from the other room.
“What’s your brother like?” Rosie asked, voice muffled through the door.
Kieran’s answer came with a sharp inhale. “He’s…a lot. Bigger than me, smarter than God, way more fun at parties.”
Rosie nodded like this made perfect sense. “Like a supervillain?”
“Kind of,” I called out, intercepting. “But he wears much better suits.”
“Who is smarter than God?” Rosie pressed.
“Good question, kid,” Kieran shot back.
The banter helped, for a second, to keep the panic at bay.
Unfortunately, that could only last so long.
A half-hour later, the three of us crammed into the hotel’s glass elevator, floating down twenty-eight floors while Rosie pressed her face to the window, entranced by the city rushing past. Kieran’s hand rested steady on her shoulder, but he caught my eyes in the mirrored wall and mouthed:Ready?I rolled my neck, tried to shake off the guilt. My turn to lead.
I braced myself for whatever waited on the ground floor. Tristan Callahan had always seemed like the sort of man who didn’t need to threaten you to be dangerous. Still, there was a certain comfort in facing the devil you knew—especially if you suspected he already knew everything about you.
We stepped out into the marble lobby, three ducks in a row. Kieran found his stride and Rosie matched it, legs pumping like she was heading to the front lines. I trailed behind, suddenly aware of how we must have looked: a man too big for his own shirt, a kid with juice stains and a cyclone of hair, and me, hiding behind a Celtics hat and sunglasses that cost more than my monthly mortgage.
The breakfast place was two blocks away. It was cold, the streets bleached out and empty, the sky colorless. Rosie kicked at the slush, swinging her hand in Kieran’s like she’d neverknown a world where she couldn’t trust him. Kieran’s head was up, every step measured, eyes flicking to every car, every doorway, every face that might matter. He didn’t do paranoia—not on the surface—but the man had an in-built radar for trouble, and it showed in the way he moved.
We cut down Tremont, then through a construction plaza, Kieran’s shortcuts always absolute and never once Googleable. It left me a little breathless and a little annoyed, but that was just Kieran: always two steps ahead, even when you didn’t want him to be.
The breakfast spot was tucked into a red-brick corner, black-mullioned windows, a line of early risers forming at the door. Of course Tristan would pick the place with a hand-lettered menu and a basement full of private rooms. We skipped the host’s desk and slid through the hush of regulars and silver-haired Sunday types, up a staircase and down a side hallway. Rosie drank it all in: the fancy chairs, the smell of coffee, the nervous energy of the waitstaff who seemed to know exactly who we were and how little they wanted to cross us.
Tristan was already there when we walked in, seated at the head of a table meant for ten but set for four. A single cup of black coffee sweated into its saucer in front of him. He didn’t stand. Just watched us enter, brows knitting in a way I couldn’t quite read—approval, calculation, maybe even hunger.
This wasn’t his house. But the decision had been out of our hands. Tristan had decided where we were going to meet.
