Vendetta (Blood for Blood #1)(23)

My attempts at avoiding Nic Priestly and his brothers were short-lived.

By the time I arrived home from my dinner shift a couple of days later, the heavens had opened up, giving way to one of the worst summer storms I could remember.

I slumped against my front door as a roll of thunder groaned behind the clouds, raising the hairs on the back of my neck and heralding a fresh onslaught of rain. After rummaging through my handbag for the hundredth time, I conceded defeat. I had forgotten my keys, and since my mother was in the city at a client’s dress fitting, I was locked out indefinitely. The battery in my phone had died, so I didn’t know when she would be back, and I wasn’t about to melt into my stoop waiting for her.

I picked myself up and, trying not to notice how the rain was welding me into my jeans, I hurtled back down the street, hopping over puddles as I ran. If I traveled at just below the speed of light, taking the fastest route, I would make it to the diner, which was nine blocks away, just as Ursula and the new waitress, Alison, were locking up for the night. Then I could slip inside, find my keys, and be out in time to swim back home again.

As I ran, the sky flashed and rumbled, rattling my nerves. It hadn’t rained this badly since the night my father went to jail, and I was reminded, with an unpleasant twist in my stomach, of how frightening that storm had really been. Ever since that night, the sound of thunder terrified me — it had become a sign of something sinister, something unwelcome. And now, not long after our deliveryman was discovered drowned in his own bathtub, here I was, completely alone and trapped in one of the heaviest downfalls Cedar Hill had ever seen.

By the time I finally turned into the diner parking lot, my feet were swimming in shoefuls of water and my nose was completely numb. Inside the diner, all the lights were off. The whole restaurant was just a low, concrete square cowering against the night sky.

I was too late.

I sprinted across the lot, hoping to find shelter beneath the overhanging roof at the diner’s entrance. I could wait out the worst of the storm, then make my way to Millie’s house.

If I had been able to open my eyes as normal, and if the storm wasn’t whipping my hair around my face in wet lashes, I would have seen the figure outside the entrance before I was charging into it.

“Hey! Watch it!”

I stumbled backward so that I was half in, half out of the shelter, but not before I’d seen that the stranger was pressed up against the door, his hands against the glass, like he was peering through. He turned and pulled his hood down.

“Nic?”

“Sophie?”

“What are you doing here?” we both asked at the same time.

“I left my keys inside, and I’m locked out of my house.”

Nic nodded thoughtfully. I waited for his answer. After a long moment, he responded quietly, “I wanted to see you.”

Another flash of lightning ignited the sky, and I saw his face fully. It was solemn, and oddly vulnerable. It was strange to think he had that side to him; I had thought of him as flawless, and confident to his core.

And dangerous, I reminded myself with a start. Focus, Sophie.

On instinct, I backed away from him and stood stock-still in the deluge.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I said, glad of the steadiness in my voice. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to hang out.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice suddenly guarded.

“I know you lied to me.” The memory crashed into me, and I reached into my bag. I pulled the knife out. It was closed but I could feel my fingers shake as they clutched the cold metal handle. I didn’t think he would snatch it from me, but a part of me wasn’t convinced — how could I know for sure? I edged backward and tightened my grip on it, trying to ignore the rain soaking through my top.

Nic stepped closer. I could see his eyes drift to my hand but he didn’t move to take the knife. Cautiously, I edged it higher so that it hovered between us. “Do you recognize this?”

He watched me with calculated stillness. There was nothing but the sound of his uneven breaths and the distant roll of thunder, as my hand shook.

“Well?” I asked.

The silence endured. His breathing evened out, but his expression remained unchanged, resolute. When he finally answered me, it seemed to take all of his energy. He pressed his lips together and pushed the words out, pronouncing them slowly, like his tongue was betraying him. “It’s mine.”

“I found it in the grass after you left.” It was an unnecessary detail — he had probably come back for it after I left — but I felt compelled to remind him that I had been right and he had been wrong to try and convince me otherwise. He knew I knew it was his, and the less information he offered me, the more suspicious I became.

I lowered my hand and took a step toward him, pushing myself into his personal space beneath the awning, so that the wall between us would shatter.

His shoulders tensed.

“Why do you carry a knife with you?”

He stalled, pulling his fingers through his hair and grabbing at it in clumps so that it stuck out over his ears. When he dropped his hand, it was with a sigh of resignation.

“The switchblade was a gift from my uncle,” he began slowly, as though he were reading from a script. “He can be a bit … eccentric.”

I turned the knife over in my hand, tracing my thumb over the falcon crest and the inscription below it. “That’s one word for it.”