Page 72 of Lover Forbidden
This was a total fucking mess.
“What about your scarf?”
“Huh?” She glanced up at him blankly. “Oh, yes. Right—”
Her phone went off and she ripped it up to her ear. “Oh, thank God, Rhamp—where are you? Are you okay?”
There was a loud rushing noise coming over the connection, like the wind was swirling around him, but her brother’s voice came through loud and clear: “Where the hell are you?”
“I’m—” She glanced at Dev. He was taking a draw on the cigarette and regarding her with a remote look. “Are you okay?”
“Where the fuck—”
“You’re okay, though?”
“I’m on the roof of a fucking apartment building, the one that I’m pretty fucking sure you whistled down from.”
She looked to the door, focusing on it over Dev’s shoulder. “What about the others?” she said tightly.
“Where are you.”
Dev’s eyes met her own, and he continued to be totally calm. To the point where she wondered what kind of life he led. It didn’t take a genius to catch the drift of the one side of the conversation he was hearing, and yet there was no shock on his face.
“I’m safe,” she said quietly. “I’ll be home soon.”
“You were supposed to be homenow—”
She hung up the phone. Put it back in her pocket. “Let’s go get my scarf.”
Taking his hand, Lyric made quick work of the descent, and dragged him behind herself. At the bottom of the shallow steps, she pushed through a door, and then continued piloting them down the open stairwell. When she got to the landing with the little “4th Floor” sign next to it, she hit the hallway and beelined for Dev’s apartment.
Even though she had no right, she let herself in—and didn’t need to mentally spring the lock because of course he hadn’t thrown the bolt. After she closed them in together, a quick glance confirmed the blackout drapes were still closed, and—
Her eyes shot to his messy bed. Then she breathed in deeply through her nose. The scent in the studio was intoxicating, the tips of her fangs tingling in response.
So he’d… taken care of himself after she’d left.
With a curse, she rubbed her eyes, then put her palms to her windblown cheeks. Now was not the time to be thinking about that stuff.
“Good thing I don’t care about breaking rules.”
Lyric jumped, and turned to him. He was leaning back against the door, taking a drag on his cigarette.
“I’m sorry?” she mumbled.
“No smoking in the building.” He exhaled a steady stream. “But I don’t think anybody’s going to be worried about a little nicotine cloud smoke in the air tonight. Do you?”
“No,” she replied grimly. “I don’t.”
Unable to stay still, she paced around, going from the refrigerator to the bed and back. When she started to feel too hot, she undid her parka.
“Look,” he said, “I don’t need to know what you’re involved in.”
Stopping, she glanced over. He had the pack of Camels in his palm along with the lighter, like he was thinking about going for a second the moment he finished what he was currently smoking. Not because he was stressed, though. He was still cucumber calm over there.
“In fact,” he continued, “I’m a firm believer in not sticking my nose into other people’s business. And if it makes you feel better to play pretense with that scarf or my jacket or my phone or whatever, that’s fine with me, too. You don’t owe me anything, and that includes your truth.”
She searched his face. There was no reserve, no artifice in his strong features, and his eyes were not avoiding hers—and that was when she discovered that she couldn’t do what was expected of her in this situation. She couldn’t wipe his short-term memories, which was absolutely the thing to do when a human knew too much or got too close.
