Page 141 of Brutal Vows
She turns to Sloane. “Thank you so much for having us over. You’re a wonderful hostess. I hope we see more of each other soon.”
Sloane says, “Babe, we’ll be seeing alotmore of each other. By the way, do you think you’d be interested in a girls’ trip to Paris? Me and my bestie, Nat, were thinking of going for fashion week in September.”
Declan says, “You’re not going to bloody Paris without me.”
Sloane smiles at him. “Okay, honey.” She turns back to Reyna. “We’ll stay at the Hôtel Costes, which is where all the cool celebrities stay. They have thisamazingluxury suite that’s like fivethousand euro a night and worth every penny. It’s the size of an apartment. We can all stay there together and order room service for every meal.”
Declan repeats loudly, “You’re not going to Paris without me!”
“I know, honey. So I’ll call you with all the details, okay, Reyna?”
“Sounds great,” Reyna replies, rising. She sets her empty wineglass on the coffee table as Sloane stands, then they hug.
I don’t know why the sight of them embracing makes my chest tight and a lump form in my throat, but it does.
Judging by Declan’s expression, he’s not feeling quite so misty-eyed about the situation.
Poor bastard. He’ll spend the next few days trying to dissuade Sloane from the Paris trip idea, which we all know will fail miserably.
We say our goodbyes and head to the car.
As soon as we’re settled in and Kieran’s driving us down the winding road from the estate, Reyna turns to me.
“I’m worried about Lili. Can you find out what’s happening?”
I take her hand and say softly, “She’s fine, lass. They got to Mexico safely.”
“You talked to her?”
“No. I talked to one of the men who took them.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
The sun set hours ago, so the light is low, but I can still see her face well enough to catch the flash of anger in her eyes.
“This morning,” she repeats, her voice cool. “When you were so distant.”
I drag a hand through my hair, sighing. “Aye. I’m sorry about that.”
Swallowing, she looks away. After a moment of silence, she says, “You don’t have to apologize.”
“I should apologize when I’ve been an arse.”
She shakes her head. “You don’t have to explain, either. I understand.”
Something in the tone of her voice—and in the way her hand is sitting passively in mine, like a dead fish—makes me nervous. “What is it you understand?”
“I just meant that you deserve privacy. You’re not obligated to share every little thought on your mind. I know you need space.”
When she gently pulls her hand from mine, I grab her chin and turn her head toward me.
Her expression is blank. Her eyes have a distant look in them. She’s withdrawn into herself, somewhere she doesn’t want me to reach her.
Fuck that shite.
“What’s wrong?”
