Denial (Careless Whispers #1)(22)

“You should have asked before you ran.”

“And risked not having the chance to run? If you were me, would you have made that decision?”

His teeth clench, his expression hardening. “You have the gun now. That’s me trusting you whether you choose to trust me or not. Don’t pay me back by getting us both killed.” He grabs my seat belt and pulls it across me, buckling me in and then settling back in his seat.

I sit there, stunned, and the stormy night is not the only thing creating the dark wall between us. There is anger. Lots of anger on both our parts, as he adds, “And just so we’re clear. I’m not your hero. I’m just the man trying to save both our f*cking lives.”

My anger evaporates instantly, and I say, “But you’re no monster.”

His head cuts sharply in my direction, willing me to look at him, and when I do, he demands, “And you know that how?”

“Because monsters always claim to be heroes.”

I expect him to ask how I know this as well, and I have no answer. There is just what I feel deep in my soul, a sense of having trusted the wrong person, who I refuse to believe was Niccolo. I would not trust a gangster. But Kayden doesn’t ask me. He doesn’t say anything. For several seconds he simply sits there, his body rigid, his jaw set hard. And when he does move, he faces forward and shifts the car into drive. I don’t turn away immediately, studying his profile, not sure if his lack of response is agreement or disagreement with my statement, only knowing that before this is over, I will find out.

Turning away from him, I sink farther into the leather seat, my gaze catching on the Rolls-Royce emblem on the glove box. I wait for the car or the brand to ring a bell beyond the obvious, and I’m relieved when it doesn’t happen. I don’t want Kayden to be lying to me. It’s the thought I replay in my mind as silence stretches between us, the rain pattering on the rooftop, the tension in the air between Kayden and me slowly softening to a hum instead of a scream. Kayden must feel it as well, because he leans down and turns on the radio, punching several buttons before an Imagine Dragons song starts to play.

I roll to my side and look at him. “You do know this song is called—”

“ ‘Monster,’ ” he finishes, giving me a sideways look, his lips hinting at a smile. “I thought it was appropriate, don’t you?”

Relieved we are over our argument, I feel a smile cut through my pain and find my lips. “Very,” I agree. “I guess Adriel likes American music?”

“Yes. He went to college in the States. And he’s a big enough Imagine Dragons fan to drag me to one of their concerts here in Rome.”

My eyes go wide. “Wait. You went to a concert?”

“I owed him a favor. And why is that so hard to believe?”

“I don’t know. You just pressed a gun to your chest. It’s hard to think about you doing something so . . .” I lift a hand. “Normal.”

“Normal’s overrated.”

“I’d take normal right about now,” I argue offhandedly, and get back to my main goal: finding out who Kayden Wilkens really is. “Do you ever go back to the States?”

“Occasionally,” he says, detouring my mission by offering nothing more.

“How old were you when you moved here?” I ask, digging in another direction.

“Ten.”

“So this really is home to you, isn’t it?”

“It’s where I live. Yes.”

It’s a curious reply, with a hidden meaning I try to decipher. “Where you live? So it’s not home?”

“Semantics.”

“That’s an answer which I assume translates to you not wanting to talk about this.”

“Why do you?”

“Because if I can’t know me, I want to know you.”

“You mean, you still think you know me and don’t remember.”

“Do I?”

“No matter how many times you ask me that, the answer’s going to be the same.”

“Fine,” I say, but I’m not ready to give up. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-two. How old are you?”

“Twenty-five,” I reply, surprising myself. “And I really . . . don’t know how I know that.”

“A name and an age. It’s progress. Maybe if you write in that journal you grabbed at the hospital you’ll know I’m telling the truth.”

“I’m sure it’s ruined.”

“And easily replaced.”

“Unlike my memories,” I say. “And I’m not calling you a liar, Kayden. I can’t help how you make me feel.”

We stop at a light and he turns to me, and even in the darkness the blast of his full attention is like fire heating ice, and I’m the ice. “How do I make you feel, Ella?”

A million emotions rush through me, but I cannot name one of them, so I whisper, “I don’t know.”

“Do you want to know how you make me feel?” he asks, his voice a low seduction that promises hot nights, and hotter kisses. I want those kisses. I want more. He might not be a monster, but he’s still keeping secrets.

“Not yet,” I say, turning away from him to face the roof of the car, when I’d meant to simply say, “No.”