Page 50 of Widow's Walk

“How is your new life, girl?” he asks.

I study his profile and realize how much he’s aged. I was so used to seeing him all the time, I hardly noticed as his hair turned gray and the crinkles turned to wrinkles.

“Just as subservient as it always has been,” I say breezily, and pop a grape tomato in my mouth to avoid his look of pity for too long.

He sighs, eyes dropping back to the task at hand. “Could you say it is better than here?” he asks quietly.

“Depends on how you look at it,” I rush out and pivot to a new subject before I speak too honestly. I shift the conversation to food, raving about how good the food is at the Golzar estate, but making sure he knows that none of it compares to his work.

I know the first course will be plated soon, and someone will come to hunt me down. “Well, it was nice catching up, Baxter.” I give him a pat on the shoulder. He turns to give me his undivided attention, and I have to fight the ridiculous urge to wrap my arms around him and deeply inhale all the scents clinging to his jacket.

His looks soften, turning sentimental. “Take care of yourself, Miss Sinclair.”

“Always have,” I chirp and steal another grape tomato before spinning on my heels.

I leave the kitchen as swiftly as I entered, and can’t help but think it could be the last time I see Baxter. He’s getting older, slower. This house doesn’t keep anything that can’t serve. If he drops dead, they’ll probably take him out with the trash. Or if he grows too weak, they’ll probably take him out back and shoot him like an injured animal. Dig him a shallow grave to throw him in, next to all the rest of the nameless, loyal corpses buried around this place.

I round the corner and nearly slam into a broad, firm chest cloaked in expensive wool. My breath catches for a split second before registering it’s Blackwell, not Royce. “You startled me,” I say with a flippant chuckle, trying to pass it off even though my pulse thrums. He stands there silently, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s posing for an oil painting of himself—brooding, rigid, and fucking handsome. “Dinner almost ready?”

“Not sure,” he mutters grumpily, looking over my shoulder as if expecting someone to be with me. Then his hand finds my lower back to steer me back in the direction of the quaint dinner party from Hell.

“Came to make sure I wasbehaving?” The words are bitter on my tongue.

He doesn’t answer as I stare at his profile, jaw tight, unreadable. He’s more wound-up now than when we first arrived.

“Still mad at me?” I push. He still doesn’t speak and it’s grating on my last fucking nerve. I dig my heels in, refusing to take one step further.

Finally, he reacts. A faint growl rumbles in his chest, releasing from his nose, and he pins me with a dark stare. “Sinclair,” he says my name so lowly, the timbre of it ripples down my spine.

“When will you and all those bombasticfucksget it through your thick skulls? I—”

The hallway spins, and I’m suddenly caged against the wall. His body covers mine, holding me with his weight, reminding me of the night of our engagement party. “And when will you stop giving them reason to look down on you?” he sneers.

I gawk at him in disbelief. “Excuse me?!” I shriek.

“Keep your voice down,” he bites, and my blood boils. “You couldn’t have just come here and—”

“And what? Keep my mouth shut? Sit there like your well-trained show dog? Mydeepestapologies for emasculating you by slipping my leash and forgetting to play the obedient bitch in front of your precious council. Didn’t mean to break your fragile illusion of control,darling. Next time I’ll crawl before I stand.”

“This isn’t about me,” he snaps, his voice raw. His eyes bounce around my face. For a fleeting moment, there’s softness flickering in his eyes. But it vanishes, and he’s back to being surly and steeled. “Acting like a rebelliousdrunkonly lets them win.”

My eyes narrow on his. “I don’t fucking care what they think,” I hiss.

He keeps analyzing me, closer now. Scrutinizing every micro-expression, and I wish I had just kept my trap shut. “You’re upset with me.”

“I’d have to care to be upset.” My response is instant.

His stare sharpens. “We all have a part to play, Sinclair. You know that.” I turn my head, done with this conversation. But he’s not.

His long fingers curl around my jaw, firm but maddeningly gentle when he turns my face. I don’t want gentle. I don’t need it. I’m not some fragile vase on the verge of tipping. I’m already chipped, and what’s left doesn’t break, it cuts.

“I have to be the man they expect me to be. But you know that’s not me.”

I blink.What the fuck?He’s exactly who he portrays himself to be.

“I don’t know you at all,” I say, instantly wishing I could take it back. His face falters, almost crestfallen, and it stabs me somewhere I didn’t even know could hurt. A lump rises in my throat, dragging my resolve down with it. And Ihatehim for it. “And you know nothing aboutme,” I push, needing distance. “Don’t act like this is anything other than an obligation for both of us.” Nothing in his wrecking-ball eyes changes, and all I want to do is hurt him. “What? Because we’ve been fucking you think there’s anything between us more than a fucking contract? I haveneverlet you in, and Ineverwill. And I don’t even want to know you. You are no different than any of them!” I finish loud, coldly.

He slaps a hand over my mouth, and I burn, imagining how I’d like to kill him. I haven’t forgotten about the little stunt he pulled on the jet.

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