Page 163 of Wicked Little Secret

It would be a pleasure to have dinner with you, if you are free, this Friday night.

Sincerely,

August Rothenberg

Nyssa looksover my shoulder as I jot down the words and then lay down the pen. She’s fresh out of the shower, clutching at the robe I’ve given her to wear.

Things between us are ambiguous at best, but in the midst of the uncertainty, we’ve settled on spending the night together. Nyssa was soaking wet after being in the rain, and I was still holding onto the chance my feelings weren’t completely unrequited.

As I glance over my shoulder at her, she gives little away. Her features are relaxed, yet her expression vacant, like she hasn’t made up hermind.

For all I know, she very well could leave any second. She could never speak to me again.

The truths that have been unloaded on her in the last forty-eight hours are enough to distort anyone’s reality.

I turn in my chair and grab at her hands to draw her toward me. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Theron… I…” she sighs then shakes her head. Her hair’s been twisted into thick braids as it dries. I reach up and slide my fingers along the underside of her scalp, giving her a light and comforting massage. Her eyes naturally flutter closed.

“Tell me, Nyssa. Tell me every little thing on your mind. Sit.”

I tug her until she tips over into my lap.

“I don’t think…” she starts again. She bites down hard on her bottom lip. “I don’t think I can leave you alone.”

“Who says you have to? Look at me.” I clip her chin between my thumb and forefinger for her attention. “You don’t have to walk away from this… us. We can make our own rules.”

Her carefully groomed brows knit together, her eyelids lowering as if tempted to slip into avoidance again. I stroke my thumb along the soft curve of her jaw to bring her back to me.

“Everything you said,” she whispers. “It was true.”

“Every last word.”

“My father?”

I understand what she’s asking. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“And my mother?”

“Yes… also unfortunately.”

“And you?” she asks. “You killed him? Because he killed her?”

Tension cords through my jaw, causing the muscle to contract. “That’s right.”

“But you’re not Valentine?”

“Nyssa—”

“Tell me,” she demands. “Tell me you’re not Valentine.”

“Your mother was. Though she had reason to be. As horrible as that is to say. None of the victims were good people.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier to process the fact that my mother was a serial killer and my father—who was more than twice her ageandher professor—killed her.”

“No, I don’t imagine it would.”

“Why are you still here?”

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