Page 90 of Capitol Matters

A sigh escaped through my nose. “It takes more thanseven kidnappings, a murder, and a suicide to get me down.” Tilting my head back, I gave him a wry smile.

In response, he frowned. “That math doesn’t add up. Weren’t there supposed to be eight people?”

There were, in fact, but I quit. After dropping off Daddy Longlegs in the wake of the ruined gala, I’d lost all motivation. I had seen no improvements to the state of things at Lock n’ Roll—no relief from the extended isolation or the pizza-exclusive meal plan. The rows of closed metal doors reminded me too vividly of Thorngate’s isolation wing, which made the kidnappees prisoners and me one of their jailers. I wanted no part of that.

Still, Nash’s inquiry peeved me, and I slipped out of his embrace. “I could go now if you want. Grab that last one.”

He caught my elbow as I rolled away and tried to pull me back. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said.

I flicked my hand at his fingers, peeling them off my arm one at a time. Swinging my legs off the edge of the bed, I sat up and stretched. “I need a shower. Breakfast…”

My stomach gurgled as though it understood. I had spent the majority of the past seventy-two hours drunk or near to it, and my insides were beginning to protest being filled like a gasoline tank.

Nash rolled onto his stomach behind me. The sheets snugged around his bare body, striped with sunlight that cut between the parted drapes.

“I’ll order delivery,” he said. “No need to go farther than the front door.”

Tempting. All of it. This place was like an island, detached from the real world. Nash himself rarely ventured beyond these four walls. A recluse by any measure, he relied on Pippa and local delivery services to supply groceries and other necessities. But I couldn’t live like that, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I’d languished too long already; stuck my head in the sand while my problems multiplied in my absence.

I dragged a toe through the dense pile rug peeking around the perimeter of the bedframe.

“Nash, I can’t stay here,” I said softly.

“Why not?” He rolled to the opposite side of the bed and grabbed a towel off the table to wipe his hands.

“It’s not my home, for one thing. Or Donnie’s.”

I was currently doing all I could to convince my brother that Grimm wouldn’t find a way to drop a bomb on the bar and destroy us all. I was, as I’d told Holland, a suspicious son of a bitch, but Donovan was outright paranoid.

“And I have a job,” I added.

“You hate your job.”

I huffed a laugh. “Which one?”

Nash’s brow furrowed in mocking contemplation. “That depends. Is criminal gang member a job or just a hobby?”

“Most days it feels like a punishment.” I grinned, having meant it as a joke, but Nash’s features pinched.

“I meant what I said.” He pinned me with a somber look. “I want better for you.”

I stood and rubbed my arms, trying to physically shake the feeling that crawled across my skin. “Yeah, andpeople in hell want ice water.”

He gave no reply as I retreated into the en suite and pushed the door closed. I didn’t lock it this time but waited with one hand on the glass knob. In the pause, I caught a glimpse of myself in the vanity mirror. I was the visual definition of “criminal gang member.” Scars and tattoos accompanied all the hallmarks of reckless living. I was too thin, too rough, too damaged. And, while I’d been told my whole life that I was the spitting image of my father, I saw less of him in me now than ever before.

It made me wonder what Nash saw, especially after Grimm decided to drag me through the mud right in front of him. Sex had never been a sacred thing for me. It was easily found and given from the time I was too young to accept it. Devoid of emotion, it filled one of two needs: entertainment or payment for services. Maybe I was whoring myself out for a bar tab, after all. Or maybe I was a novelty Nash would soon tire of. He claimed he didn’t need what the gang had to offer, but I brought even less to the table.

Moving forward, I cranked the brass shower faucet on to full blast and scalding. Steam thickened the air before I stepped into the tub. As soon as my foot touched the porcelain, I remembered the thick ooze I’d last seen running down this drain. Coagulated goo studded with clumps of dissolving hair.

The memory staggered me, and I dropped to sit on the edge of the clawfoot tub, both hands white-knuckle gripping the slick surface.

Sweat beaded on my skin as I struggled to put space between anxious breaths. One panic attack might havebeen a fluke, but two made a trend, and not the kind I could allow. After another hesitant moment, I yanked both feet out of the tub and spun to stand on the cold, tile floor.

The rapid change in temperature shocked my thoughts back into order. I turned off the water and grabbed a towel from the hook beside the door, winding it around my waist. There were other bathrooms in this house with showers I could use. Mentally, I mapped a beeline back through the bedroom, hoping to avoid Nash and Pippa, who had made her opinions known about my habit of wandering the house in various states of undress.

When I flung the door open, the last person I expected was Donovan. He stood so close that I jumped back and nearly slipped on the wet tile.

“Jesus Christ, what?” I blurted, grasping at the knot that loosely secured the towel around my hips.

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