Page 89 of When Lies Unfold

Her lips part to answer, but she hesitates for so long it’s like the words got stuck in her throat. When conflict flashes in those brown eyes, I shove away from the wall and close in on her. ’Cause I know what she really wants but isn’t ready to admit.

She’s strugglin’ with this—and I get why. She’s got this pure quality—even with that bit of secrecy that still clings to her—that’s worlds away from me.

I’m a criminal. A murderer. Heartless. All the things she’s not. But I’m not ashamed of it. That’s my lot in life.

I’m proud of who I’ve become, and I’m really fuckin’ proud of the empire I’ve built.

So, yeah… I understand why she’s hesitant to admit the truth. She doesn’t want me to leave her alone any more than I do. There’s been somethin’ brewin’ between us from the start.

Plantin’ my palms on either side of her, I bring my face closer to hers. Her breath catches when I lower my voice. “Didn’t hear your answer.”

I speak softly against the corner of her mouth. “You really want me to leave you alone? ’Cause I gotta be honest.”

My voice is ragged soundin’ while my lips graze her cheek. “If I had my way”—I drag my lips down to her jawline—“I’d bother you all the damn time.”

My lips find a sensitive spot at the juncture of her jawline and earlobe, and she shivers. “Just. Like. This.”

“You don’t even trust me.” Her words emerge in short bursts. “So, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but?—”

I stop short and draw back enough to survey her. I sure as hell can’t blame her for thinkin’ that. Which tells me she needs me to give a little more.

Has she given me shit just about every step of the way? Fuck, yeah. But I like it when Lola gives as good as she gets.

And she hasn’t once gone runnin’ her mouth to anybody about my business. If she was gonna do it, like Gordo said, she would’ve done it by now.

The woman guards her privacy the same way I do my business, and I haven’t shown her an ounce of gratitude for it.

Plus, my daughter trusts her—and that says a whole hell of a lot.

“If you promise not to play me”—I pin her with my probin’ gaze—“then there’s no game.”

She scans my features as if searchin’ for signs that I’m lyin’. But she won’t find a damn thing. When she stays silent, it compels me to offer somethin’ that may draw her away from her reluctance.

My collar feels like it’s suddenly grown tight enough to choke me. I tug at it and clear my throat, but my voice remains gruff and uncharacteristically hoarse. “Did I tell you how gorgeous you look tonight?”

Clearly shocked by my question, her eyes go wide and her cheeks flush. “No.” Her answer’s quiet but holds a thread of surprise.

“Well, you do.” Gently sweepin’ her hair back over her shoulder, I trace a finger over the wing of one blue butterfly alongside her neck. “And not a single man in that room wasn’t thinkin’ the same.”

Goose bumps rise on her skin from my touch. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips while suspicion flares in her eyes.

Her voice is subdued but firm. “How do I know you’re not just messing with me right now?”

I drop my hands and reach for my holstered gun. Her expression immediately grows guarded, her body visibly tensin’ as she watches me remove it from the holster. I take one of her hands and place my weapon in her palm, closin’ her fingers around it. When I cover it with my hand, her eyes widen.

If Gordo were here to witness this, he’d be convinced I’ve lost my goddamn mind. Or my fuckin’ balls. It’s a close call either way.

But somethin’ drives me to do this. To put her in control and show her I can give a little. Even if it just about kills me to do so. Relinquishin’ any control isn’t like me, let alone willingly puttin’ myself in a vulnerable position.

A wrinkle forms between her dark brows as she hisses, “What’re you doing?”

“Provin’ that I’m not messin’ with you.” Our eyes hold. “I admit that I’ve taken control over your life.” Addin’ another hand, I sandwich her grip on the weapon. “This is me givin’ up some of that control.”

Her gaze flits between me and the gun when I release my hold. She adjusts her grip as if testin’ out its feel.

She spears me with an indecipherable look, and when she flicks off the safety, my muscles automatically go rigid, but I don’t move.

As she mutters “Narco idiota?1” under her breath disgustedly, she lets the barest touch of a derisive smile tug at her mouth. “You’re so full of shit.”

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