Page 66 of Kortlek

I just hope that in due time, she’ll forgive me for lying to her. Because no matter the circumstances, lying to her is unforgivable. It doesn’t make me any better than that bastard Wyatt.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Our suitcases rest somewhere in the far corner of the suite. Although it annoys me, Cove begged me not to focus on the mess and just enjoy myself as much as possible. This vacation is something we both desperately needed — I just wasn’t aware how much we needed it until we got here.

It’s odd.

Cove is not the type to like to travel. If he could, he’d stay inside of his home for the rest of his life. The only time he’d leave would be to have his illegal fights, a bit of racing here and there, and to participate in Kortlek. Otherwise? Cove Steele is a total homebody.

When he told me — no, he didn’t ask me, he told me — that he’d be taking me on a small trip to Italy, I was confused. Arlo was immediately on board as well as Father. Now, that was fucking weird. The two of them never seemed to see eye to eye with Cove these days. Why the sudden change?

Blair’s completely useless. When asked, she just said she was clueless and left it at that. She practiced her poker face over the years, and as much as it pains me to admit it, I wouldn’t be able to tell if she was lying or not.

The very next day, our suitcases were packed, and we were on the first flight to Rome. The only reason I came willingly and without asking too many questions was because I knew that sooner or later, an opportunity would present itself and I’d figure it out.

Then, both Cove and Arlo would get their asses handed to them.

My hair is wrapped in a fluffy towel, which matches the robe on my body. It’s in a deep red color, and Cove has the same one, only a couple of sizes bigger. A pair of sunglasses rests on top of my nose as I put my bare feet up on the small stool in front of me, slowly sipping on the hot cup of tea in my hands.

The November sun is a whole lot warmer in Rome than it is in New York. It’s not hot, but it’s very nice. I put the cup down on the small table between the two chairs, the other one occupied by Cove, and closed my eyes. A soft breeze hits my skin, and a small smile latches onto my face.

It’s peaceful.

Like the calm before the storm. I know there’s one. I can feel it in my bones. I don’t know where, when, or how it will happen — but it will. My intuition has never failed me, and I won’t start doubting my gut feeling now.

After taking a rest day when we arrived, we spent the next three days sightseeing, trying out the best-rated restaurants around the city, and relaxing. Not once has Cove mentioned Wyatt. To make matters even worse, every time I brought up the men we captured, he’d brush me off and say that Dad and Arlo took care of it.

I know they did; I want to know how.

“Is there anything else you want to see?”

Cove’s voice breaks my train of thought. I lean back into the chair and cross my legs. The soft breeze makes this whole situation a little less intense. I’m certain a lot of things are being kept a secret from me specifically, and in order to snoop around and find everything, I’ll have to play along.

“No,’’ I sigh. “I’d prefer resting today. Or maybe grabbing a bite. That sounds good, too.’’

“Anything specific?”

I take my sunglasses off and turn to look at him. His hair’s slightly damp from the shower, and he’s wearing his boxers only. My eyes drift to his thick thighs and the veins that seem to stand out as he shifts in the chair.

God, I want to have my head squished between those delicious-looking thighs.

“I could have some carbonara.’’

Cove sighs. I look up at him, and he has an unreadable expression. He’s trying to stay here with me, but mentally? He’s miles away. All of this tells me that the sudden trip has everything to do with Wyatt. Yet, he hasn’t done anything even remotely suspicious since we got here.

It’s not my proudest moment, but while he was showering last night, I snooped through his phone. All of his texts to Arlo are mundane, with Cove provoking him, then leaving him on read when my brother starts spamming with rage texts.

“One of these days, you’ll turn into carbonara,’’ he snorts.

“Well, it’s not often that I get to eat an authentic one. I’m making the most of my time here. Speaking of which,’’ I pause, leaning over on the table, looking at him and trying to carefully observe his expression. “When are we going home?”

He lifts a brow. “Why? Tired of me already?”

“Yes.’’

“Ouch,’’ he says in the most monotone voice known to mankind, and I laugh.

“Don’t be like that,’’ I tease, “you know I adore spending time with you, but we could’ve done that back in New York.’’

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