Page 33 of Vow of Revenge
Twisting his torso around so he was close enough to touch, he looked directly at me. “We both got exactly what we wanted, Freya.”
“I got more than I bargained for.” I wasn’t sure where this was going, but my poor heart was beating so hard, I could feel it in my throat.
His intensity dwindled as he sat back. “You loved every fucking second of it, little mouse.”
“Ugh! I’m hardly a mouse.” I clucked my tongue and rolled my eyes.
“Again, with the eye rolling.” He actually sighed and drummed his fingers on his thigh.
“I’m not a tiny little mouse who’ll fall into a trap. I think your attractive but that doesn’t mean I’ll fall at your feet.” There, I said it, out loud. A line was drawn in the sand. My safety barrier had been erected with him on one side and me on the other.
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “We’ll see about that.” That’s all he said as a closing statement to our standoff.
The town car slowed down to a stop. Gavin jumped out and opened my door immediately. Lifting out into the cool night air, I nodded towards him. “Thanks.”
We had parked up opposite a glass fronted bar. A soft light glowed overhead from pretty lanterns swaying on branches. Tall trees were planted amongst a cobbled courtyard with occupied tables flanking the entrance. “I’ve never been here before.” I smiled over at Kaleb who was watching me quietly.
“You don’t get out much, do you?” In a stride or two he was right by my side. “Do you want to sit out here or go into the bar?” he asked.
“I’m happy to sit out here, by that gas heater.” I pointed to the tall patio heater and free table.
“Grab the table, and I’ll order us a round of drinks.” He took a few steps forward, leaving me behind. “Come on.” His hand stretched out behind him, and he waited for me to latch on. Without thought, I reached out and wrapped my fingers around his, instantly feeling the icy nip of metal from the ringed fingers that linked mine. “Beer, spirits or wine?” His tone was calm and cool like he was completely unaffected by the fact we were holding hands in a courtyard, lit by a delicate glow of the moon and pretty lanterns.
I let go of his hand because it felt too good to be real. “A white wine spritzer, please.” The unoccupied table was my focus.
My sanity. My life line. I made a beeline for it and dropped down onto the padded seat for refuge. When I looked up, he was gone. Scanning the crowded bar through the large windows, I found him talking to a barman and pointing to our table outside. He stood out to me with a sexy smug look that never failed to make me curious. With a hand slotted in his jeans, rounded shoulders and a lock of hair falling to his thick lashes, he caught the glances of every single female in the bar. I was equally as entranced by his natural self-confidence and those ocean coloured eyes that glinted with wickedness as he sauntered my way. Every step he took brought him closer to me. The flutters in my chest felt more like palpitations, like my heartbeat was struggling to keep up with the adrenaline pumping inside me.
“The drinks will be here soon.” He pulled out a chair and sat down opposite me. There was a moment of silence as he stared at me with heated assessment. “What’s so special about the bracelet?”
I rested my elbows on the table and checked out my fingernails because the jittery way I was feeling about him was dangerous. “It belonged to my mother.” I touched my wrist where it used to sit. “It was supposed to keep us closer together, even though she had to work all the time. It doesn’t look like much, I know that. Yet it’s priceless because it’s all she could afford. I have an attachment to it, which links me to her.”
He sat back, hitching his elbow on the back of his chair. “Isn’t Wendy your mother?” There was an icy edge to his question, and I wasn’t sure why.
A light breeze agitated the hair draping my shoulders, blowing a few strands in front of my face. I scraped them free from my lips and sucked in a slow breath. “Yes and no. She’s my legal guardian. My birth mother was killed in a car accident when I was younger.”
Particles of light reflected in his eyes making them turbulent and cold like a blizzard. I couldn’t understand how his glare could freeze me with so much power. “And, Syrah, she isn’t your real sister.” He stated rather than asked.
“She’s both my sister and my best friend.” A swell of emotion tipped my tone, and I tapped the table to hear something else other than my thunderous heartbeat. “We’re really close. She was a blessing that came from my mother’s death.”
A softness brushed over his stern features. “Brett’s my cousin, yet I’d call him my brother. Tell me…” His chin lifted. “Do you remember your mother?” Kaleb twisted a ring on his finger and nodded to the waiter who set the drinks down on square napkins.
I grabbed the tall stem glass and took a long gulp of the honied Chardonnay, recalling the very minute I was told of the accident. “I remember her smell more than anything – it was astringent like antiseptic. It was probably all the cleaning products she used.”
He nodded once and brought the glass tumbler to his lips. After he sipped in quiet contemplation, he reached across the table and delicately teased a lock of hair away from my lashes. The sudden gesture was both exhilarating and alarming because his expression was hard like he was holding back resentment or hatred or lust.
“What about your parents?” I returned the line of questioning. His hand retreated to the glass on the table and his jaw tightened.
A gulp of whiskey slid down his throat. He instantly sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth like it had burned. “My father was murdered.”
I gulped loudly. “Holy shit! How did that happen? What about your mother? Who killed him?” I had a hundred and one questions to ask.
The rings adorning his fingers twinkled as they trailed through his hair. “His throat was cut. I don’t remember anything else.” I caught a glimpse of the rage behind his eyes as he sat back and pretended to be unaffected. “My mother was never around. She left us.”
My heart pinched, like I was recalling the pain and hurt from my own past. “Who did it?”
He looked over my shoulder as if he was reliving a memory. “I don’t remember.”
“What happened after that?” I barely whispered.
