Page 110 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
I look at him. He’s serious. It’s terrifying. “Let’s change the subject.”
His voice softens, as do his eyes. “No.”
My stomach is in ropes. Beads of sweat break out along my forehead. I manage, barely, to swallow. “What if I said please?”
“You haven’t said it yet.”
I open my mouth, but Parker beats me to the punch.
“I’ve always wanted kids,” he says, looking right into my eyes.
I feel as if my dinner is about to make a violent reappearance. Cold flashes over me, then scalding heat, and then an anguish so complete it floods every cell, every atom of my being, straight down into the marrow of my bones.
For a blind, bottomless moment, I’m no longer Victoria Price. I’m no longer a woman looking at a man, or even a human being at all.
I am Pain.
Then I’m out of my seat, stumbling over wooden floorboards to the railing that surrounds the lanai, gripping it like a life vest, my knees and elbows locked so I don’t slide down to the floor.
He comes up behind me and surrounds me with his arms. I close my eyes and lower my head, fighting the swell of sobs rising in my throat. Parker puts his face into my hair.
“I want to know all the dark places in you,” he whispers vehemently, his arms like a vise. “I want to be the one who has the key that unlocks all your bolted doors and chases away all the monsters you keep hidden behind them. I want to be the light inside your darkness. I want to be your rock and your safety net, the soft place you can fall.”
When I don’t reply, he turns me around, holds me by the waist, and lifts my chin.
“I meant what I told you before, about you being safe with me, Victoria. Whatever happened to you in the past, with me you’ll always be safe. I promise.”
My breath catches in my throat. “Why?”
Eyes shining, he says simply, “You move me.”
I drop my head to his chest. My voice comes out hollow, an empty, ugly rasp against the muffled boom of the distant surf. “You don’t know me. You said it yourself.”
“I know enough.”
A gull cries, soaring somewhere overhead. The breeze grows more restless, snapping the curtains by the sliding doors, pulling my dress into billowing folds around my knees. The pungent sting of ozone hangs in the air, and I know that rain is imminent.
I whisper, “Why are you saying these things to me? Why did you bring me here? What is it you want?”
Parker strokes his hand over my head, combs his fingers through my hair, his silence contemplative. Then, finally, with a soft sigh as if a decision has been made, he says, “I want to show you something.”
He takes my hand and leads me away from the railing, inside through the kitchen, and up the stairs. We pad silently down the hallway toward the master bedroom, but turn instead to a door to the right. It’s closed. Parker grasps the handle and looks at me.
“Have you ever heard of something called spousal privilege?”
What an odd question. My brow wrinkles. “I don’t think so.”
Parker’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “It’s a legal term. It means that a husband can’t be forced to testify in court against his wife.”
I dread the answer, but know I must ask. “And what does that have to do with anything?”
Parker stares down at me, his eyes as focused as lasers on mine. Light burns behind them, catching fire to the flecks of gold in his irises. A tingle of animal recognition courses through me, and I know in an instant that whatever he’s brought me here for is behind this door.
Parker turns the knob, pushes it open, and lets his hand fall to his side. “Just keep it in mind.”
Filled with trepidation, I look inside the room.
The first thing my gaze falls on is a picture, displayed prominently on the opposite wall, a framed eight-by-ten surrounded by dozens of other pictures, similarly framed.
