Reveal (Wicked Ways #2)(65)

There’s a subtlety to him right now—a softness—that I’ve never seen before. It’s in the way he stares at me across the distance, brandy-colored eyes looking at me from under thick lashes while Lucy sleeps soundly in the back seat of some ridiculously expensive sports car. A car that most men would freak out over because the glitter in her hair might get on its precious leather. And the whole of the moment—of him—is enough for me to realize that he knows he screwed up.

We all do.

If Lucy could comprehend things like I do, when she’s older would she judge me for the mistakes I’m making now? For running Wicked Ways, even though in the end the risks are all for her?

How can I not forgive him?

How can I not love him?

I don’t think that’s possible.

“Let’s get her royal highness inside,” he says, holding on to me a little longer before heading back to pick up a dead-to-the-world princess snoring in his glitter-laced back seat.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Ryker

“She still asleep?” I ask as Vaughn shuts the door to Lucy’s room.

“Out like a light.”

She stares at me, arms crossed over her chest and exhaustion written all over her body, but the softest of smiles is on her lips. For a brief second her question from earlier comes back to me: Have you ever thought about having kids?

This is what it would look like.

Her tired after a long day. Me staring at her, thinking how gorgeous she looks just like this: hair messy, lipstick long gone, a million pieces of dusted-off glitter dancing on her skin.

This is what it would feel like times a million. I bet.

Me wanting to pull her on my lap, nuzzle my nose under her neck, and think about sinking into her body to release the frustrations of my own long day.

And then I realize that I’m saying with her. With Vaughn.

My body tenses. Slow the fuck down, Lockhart. You played princess for Lucy. You did it because you felt bad for being the catalyst that is causing Vaughn’s world to spin out of control. You did it because it was the right thing to do, and hell if getting a killer blow job out of it in gratitude didn’t cross your mind in the process.

Panic hits me.

The kind that makes your thoughts misfire, and you question everything about yourself, because this isn’t you. These thoughts aren’t yours.

“Hey.” Her hand slides over my neck, fingernails scratching gently, as I sit on her couch. My eyes close at the sensation, at the desire to just be here with her with no expectations, with no demands.

I love her.

The word hits my ears, and I jolt up out of my seat as if it’s the first time I ever thought them when it came to Vaughn.

I have said them, though. In a rush to win her back after doing something awful, I said them. Words I thought I knew the meaning of but realize now I didn’t have a goddamn clue.

I told her I loved her before to try to win her back. That’s what you’re supposed to say, right? But it was only panic then, only words said through the haze of lust and the supposition of need.

But now, after we’ve been through all this drama, all this conflict, I’m still here when normally I would have hit the road. I’m still here because she’s taught me things about myself that I never knew—that I’m good with kids, that there is something to be said about sleeping with someone without having sex, that forgiveness is more powerful than anything—but most of all she taught me that I am capable of love.

I love her.

I repeat the three words in my head and know that for the first time in my life, I truly understand their meaning and the power they hold. They’re not to be feared or taken lightly. They’re not to be wielded like a sword.

They’re to be meant. To be spoken at the right moment. To be used sparingly.

I love Vaughn.

My chest constricts, and my entire body heats as her eyes flash to me while I stand like a deer in headlights in the middle of her living room.

“You okay?” She takes a step toward me, concern loaded in her tone. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“Yes. Fine.” What are you going to do, Lockhart? “I . . . uh . . . forgot something in my car.” I throw my thumb over my shoulder to sell the lie.

“Okay.” She says the word, but I just stand there without moving. “Are you going to get it?”

“Yeah. Sure. I’ll just”—move your feet, Ryk—“be right back.”

“’Kay.” Her smile lights up her eyes. “I’ll pour the wine.”

Her smile lights up her eyes?

You have it fucking bad, Lockhart.

Pathetic and bad.

I open the door, distracted in more ways than I ever thought possible, shut it behind me, and then stumble to a stop.

He’s medium height, lanky, without an ounce of muscle on him. His hair is an oily brown, his fingers stained with what looks like grease under his nails, and his clothes look out of place on him. Expensive threads on a sketchy man.

His eyes widen and his head startles when our eyes meet. I’m on edge immediately.

“Can I help you?”

He takes in my dress shirt unbuttoned, my cuffs rolled up, and zeroes in on the watch on my wrist. His gaze stays there for a beat before he shifts on his feet and jerks his arms oddly.