He gives me a slow nod. “Maybe.”
If it is a King, Saul Cartwright or one of the others, that means evidence will be hard to come by, and even if we somehow find any, Daniel will either not believe us, or look the other way.
“I should be the one to go tomorrow,” I decide, thinking of the plan they’d worked up earlier. “It should be me.”
His brows crouch low, a dangerous expression crossing his face. “How the fuck do you figure?”
“You’re closest to the Kings because of your dad. We need to protect you from suspicion.” Shrugging, I fiddle with the change on his dresser, arranging it into a flower. “But no one knows about us. I mean, your dad, obviously. But other than him?” I glance at him through the mirror. “No one knows we’re…” I struggle to find a word that fits, settling lamely for, “together.”
He frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“Dimitri and Tristian,” I explain, turning. “They take me places. They treat me like their girlfriend. Everyone’s seen us together. Kissing. Touching. But you aren’t like that. I mean…” I look away, irritated that this isn’t coming out right. “When we’re at home, you are. But you’re not public about it. I’m just saying, if I do something, almost no one would suspect that you’re connected.”
I immediately regret saying it, because it digs at something raw and tender inside my chest to catalogue all the touches he hasn’t made. The good luck kiss he never gave me before the Screw Year’s Eve match. The way he looks at me at parties, over the press of the crowd, never pulling me close. It isn’t a big deal. It’s not like I need another leg lifted to piss on me.
“Well, I can’t just…” There’s a long beat of silence before Killian speaks again. When he does, the words are awkward—quiet, like a secret. “Story. People think you’re my sister.”
My eyes jerk up to his. “People think I’m a whore.” It comes out more sharply than I’m intending, but I don’t regret it. “That doesn’t stop me from walking with the three of you. I’m not so cowardly that I let what people think stand between me and something I want.” I watch the words hit his eyes, tightening at the corners. It makes my stomach sink, because the last thing I want tonight is another fight.
“You’re right,” he says, surprising me. When he reaches out, tucking his finger into the belt loop on my jeans, I let him tug me closer. “I’m a coward.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.” He pulls me into his lap, straddling him, hands firm on my hips. It’s rare anymore that we’re this close—not like this. Alone. Not fighting. From here, I can see the freckle on his temple. The sweep of his eyelashes. The texture above the dark circles settled beneath his eyes. “Rath thinks he’s dumb because of all his bullshit reading problems, but you want to know the truth? He’s the smartest person I know.” He tucks his thumbs beneath my shirt, hitching me closer. “It’s not book smarts. It’s the useful smart. You know he only needs to listen to a song three times before he can play it?” Killian shakes his head. “Rath will always be good at what he does. And Tristian…” His eyes drop to my chest, finger hooking in the neck of my shirt. He tugs it down just enough to expose the ‘T’ carved there. “He’ll always be a big deal around here, because he’s a Mercer.” One of his eyebrows arches. “And because he’s a fucking psycho.”
I breathe a laugh, winding my arms around his neck. “Just a little.”
He palms the small of my back, continuing, “Having him at your side will open doors for you, whether you want them or not. But I’m not worth tying around your neck. Not like that. Not anymore.”
I watch that dull glimmer pass through his eyes—this thing he feels is truth—and lean in to speak against his lips. “Bullshit.”
The kiss is the strangest thing.
It’s slow and sweet, completely void of the sting I’m used to with Killian. Even when he grabs a thick handful of my ass and drags me up over the bulge in his lap, it’s without the usual hostility. That doesn’t make it any less gut wrenching, a sharp, white heat settling between my legs as I rock against him.
He grabs me by the back of the head, breaking away to mouth at a patch of skin below my jaw. Gruffly, he whispers, “I’ve been saving it,” and then bucks up into me, swallowing my gasp with quick lips and an invasive tongue. “Come to bed with me and I’ll give it to you,” he says, chasing my mouth when I rear back.