Page 18 of Betrayed in the Dark
“Not in the slightest.”
He laughs, the sound sending a swarm of wild butterflies to my stomach. “I like the cold. After spending so much of my life in the Middle East, I find this weather to be my favorite.”
The Middle East. My stomach churns, the butterflies dying one by one as I’m suddenly hit with guilt, knowing what he’s been through.
Or actually, not knowing. Not really.
“Well, are you going to let me in, or is your real plan to let me freeze to death?” A puff of air forms before his lips, proving just how cold it is.
I step to the side and let him enter, closing the door behind him, leaving us completely alone for the first time since…
“New painting?” he asks as he steps into the living room and approaches the canvas hanging above the roaring fire.
It’s an abstract piece I found while visiting family in the south of France. The image is split down the middle, with one side engulfed in darkness and the other in light. Two figures stand at the bottom, back-to-back, staring off into their respective sides, longing for the other, but the worlds they live in keep them apart. Separating them from the one thing they both desire most in this world—each other.
The artist I bought it from didn’t tell me this story.
It was just something I felt deep within my bones.
“Yes,” I say, waving a dismissive hand. “It was a gift from an artist overseas.”Lie. I bought it the moment I saw it, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. But I won’t admit that to him—he’ll read too much into it.
His eyes skim the canvas, taking in every detail before he turns to look at me.
He knows.
Of course, he knows.
It shouldn’t surprise me that he would see the same story I do.
There used to be a time when I felt so in sync with him.
Like no matter what, we would always have each other’s backs. That we would always be on the same page as each other.
That is…until we weren’t.
Four words.
Back and forth.
Up and down.
I press my fingers into the side of my scalp, where an ache forms, and take a few steps toward the kitchen. “All right, well, would you like a tour?”
He adjusts his bag on his shoulder, gazing off into the distance. “I’m pretty sure I remember my way around the place,” he states coolly.
A slight stab of irritation from how casual he’s being hits me in the center of my chest.
Did none of it mean anything to him?
“Of course.” I turn, making my way to the stairs. “Well, if you’ll follow me, I can show you to your room.”
Awkwardness instills as silence reigns over us.
It’s not that I’ve never had a bodyguard before. There have been times in my life when tensions were high between rival families, especially right after my father’s death, when I was forced to have a bodyguard with me at all times. I didn’t particularly mind it, but I didn’t love it either.
So, this isn’t new to me.
It’s just that none of my bodyguards have ever been…him.
