When She Falls (The Fallen, #3)(12)

The way he says hungry makes heat rise to my cheeks.

As if to emphasize his point, he snatches a goat-cheese crostini off a passing tray. “You should try it. There’s still time left.”

“You could try being more subtle about wanting to get me naked.”

His eyes spark. “I never said you needed to take off your clothes. But I do tend to have that effect on women.”

I roll my eyes so hard I’m afraid they might get stuck facing the back of my head. “The only effect you have on me is indigestion.”

His deep laughter is not entirely unpleasant, and it sends something buzzing inside my lower belly.

I give my head a slight shake. The heat, the alcohol, and my nearly empty stomach are clearly mixing some brain signals, because there’s no way I find anything about Ras pleasant. Deciding it’s time to make an exit, I move to brush past him, but he stops me by grabbing my forearm.

“Tell me, why does your tongue get so sharp around me, but you seem to swallow it around your parents?”

A thrill runs up my spine. Why is he touching me? He shouldn’t be touching me. I shoot a nervous glance in Vale and Cleo’s direction, but they’ve moved away to say hello to Vince, who’s finally arrived. Mamma and Papà are farther away engaged in conversation with Damiano.

My gaze finds Ras’s. His dark-hazel eyes have flecks of bronze in them, I realize. “Why do you care?”

His grip on me tightens, and he tugs me closer. I can’t tell if it’s to intimidate me or to simply make sure no one overhears our conversation, but I suspect it’s the former.

His touch burns along my arm. “You let people push you around, and they’ll keep doing it, Gem.”

Anger flares inside my belly. I tug my elbow, but his hold on me doesn’t let up. “Didn’t anyone teach you it’s rude to give unsolicited advice?”

“I must have missed that lesson.” He arches a thick brow. “So what? Your ma has you on some kind of diet so that you’ll be nice and weak when it comes time to walk down the aisle? She making sure you won’t have the strength to run away?”

“Why would I run away?” I snarl at him. “For all you know, I can’t wait to marry Rafaele.”

He laughs at me. “Oh yeah. He sounds like a real catch. Are you going to be all meek and obedient for him? Yesterday at lunch, you put on a convincing performance.”

“Get your hand off me before Papà sees it,” I grind out, trying to mask the slow simmer of panic inside me. I can’t keep getting slapped around. Even my extra-coverage concealer has its limits.

Ras lets go of me, and his expression turns probing. I don’t like it at all.

“Here’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he says in a low voice. “Which version of you is the real Gemma?”

My body grows still and hollow, his question rattling inside the cavity of my chest like a snake. I purse my lips, willing the unsettling feeling away. “I don’t know what you mean, but this conversation is far past its expiration date.”

His reaction is not what I expect. Something flares to life in his eyes, and he points one thick finger at me. “That, right there. Is that fire real? Or are you just pretending to be someone you’re not?”

My teeth clench. “Goodbye.” I spin around and march across the lawn, desperate to get away from him and his damned questions.

Because the truth is, he nailed something on the head.

I don’t know if the fire is real.

All I know is that it only really started to come out after I met him.





I float around the party, nicking canapés and pondering why I tend to not hold anything back around Ras.

I think it’s because he’s the first person I’ve been around whose opinion of me is of no consequence.

He can hate me. He can think I’m a bitch. Or that I have “a few screws loose.”

I don’t care. My opinion of him is far worse.

I’ve always had to be careful about what I say to people back in New York. I realized a long time ago that anything I say to anyone in the family has a high likelihood of making its way back to my parents.

But Ras? He’s not going to go and tell Papà how I’ve been speaking to him, that’s for sure.

So yeah. It’s liberating to be able to say whatever’s on my mind.

What’s not liberating is him calling me out on it.

I sit down on a stone bench facing the water and pop a shrimp skewer into my mouth.

“Gem.”

I turn around at the sound of a familiar male voice.

It’s Vince.

My brother looks mildly annoyed as he takes a seat beside me, a glass of whiskey in his hand. I catch a whiff of some expensive cologne. He always smells nice.

“Um, hi? Don’t I even get a hug?” I haven’t seen him in months.

“You didn’t come to say hello,” he says coolly.

I sigh. “I’m sorry, your majesty.” My brother has what some might call a difficult personality.

When he lived back home, he terrorized our staff. My brother is a perfectionist and a bit of a… Well, let’s just say I overheard even our sweet housekeeper, Lydia, call him an asshole.

I wrap an arm around his waist and peck his cheek. After a moment, he hugs me back.