Page 42 of De-Witched

Right. Tia had mentioned a sister. “How old is she?”

“Fourteen.”

“Tough age.”

“For some. Melly has always been strong-willed.”

“As all Goodnights are.”

A dry flick of a look. “Indeed.”

“She’s back in New Orleans?” He nodded. “You didn’t bring her here. I...” She picked her way delicately through the minefield. “With your parents... Do you take care of her?”

“Yes.”

She wanted to ask how old he’d been when his parents had died, but it felt too much like prying open the fist he held around his pain. “You must miss her.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Your voice. You love her, even when she annoys you.”

He faced the window, all haughty male. “I have a great tolerance for annoying females.”

Leah laughed at that.

He watched the darkness as she watched him. “We haven’t been apart this long before,” he admitted softly. “I do miss her, yes.”

“She could come visit.”

“No.” Now his voice was sharp. “It’s dangerous.”

“The city?”

His lip curled. “The people.”

Leah’s heart hitched. He’d been so easy tonight, with her, with the guys, that she’d forgotten he had a hang-up about humans. Still, she plunged ahead, a general paving the way for her troops to win the war.

“Depends how you look at it.” She didn’t flinch as he cut his gaze to hers, the green sharp enough to make her bleed. “I like to think that people are basically good.”

Everything about him tightened, a cork ready to blow and shatter the bottle as it flew. “My parents died because they went out of their way to help people,” he bit out, voice sharp, hard. “It’s because of...‘people’ that Melly grew up only knowing them through my memories.”

She should go. That was the sensible thing to do.

And yet, her feet stubbornly stayed planted. It didn’t take a magnifying glass to glimpse his pain. It was a wound that didn’t bleed but wept into his insides, poisoning everything it touched. She shouldn’t care, shouldn’t want to launch herself at him and hug the ache away. Likely she’d get thrown across the room if she even tried. So, she did the only thing she could think of. Share something of herself.

“You’re right.” She pulled her bottom lip into her mouth, worrying it. Took a deep breath. “People can be selfish. Weak. My dad.” Her skin prickled and she shrugged her shoulders irritably. “He was...well, he was my hero when I was a kid. My best friend. Until he decided he wanted a new family.” She sensed Gabriel looking at her but preferred to focus her gaze past his shoulder, on his fabulous kitchen and its twelve toasters. That earned a double take. Twelve? And he called her strange. “My mom fell apart,” she said, picking up the thread. “Wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t dress, wouldn’t come out of her room. She’s the happiest, brightest woman, and with one selfish decision, he cut her into nothing.”

Old pain blossomed, a bruise that never healed, sore under the surface. He was poker-faced when she dared to look at him. She found it comforting, preferring that to any kind of sympathy.

“So, I get the whole distrust vibe you’ve got going,” she finished, ready to drop the subject back into the do-not-disturb box. She’d made her point. “But you shouldn’t let a couple bad apples ruin the cobbler. Most of us are okay.”

He didn’t speak but she felt his gaze probing, as if he could see beneath the layers. It propelled her upward with a need to hide. “Anyway, it’s late. I should get going. Thanks for the drink.”

When he didn’t move, didn’t speak, she grabbed her purse from where she’d set it by the couch. Home free, she thought. Except when she sidled past him, his long fingers wrapped around her wrist. His hand was cool. Strong.

She hoped he didn’t feel the skip in her pulse. “What?”

He released her, an odd hitch of something causing a line between his brows. “You didn’t finish your coffee.”

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