Page 75 of The Prodigal

This is such a mistake.

I don’t let people see this side of me—the dark truth that haunts me. I’ve allowed Eden to get too close. I’ve allowed her to become something more than just a pawn in my revenge scheme.

Eden Da Luca has managed to do what no one else has done in decades: She’s managed to break me by crawling under my skin, slowly wearing me down by poisoning me with her sweetness.

And I let her.

Hell, I welcomed her sugary venom.

I want to drain the very essence from her and leave her as broken as she will leave me at the end of this.

Kissing her in the river was a mistake—a grave error on my part. I didn’t expect the feel of her lips to bring about this visceral desire to claim and protect, but it did, and now, all I can think about is protecting her from me.

I almost let myself steal her innocence on the hood of my car.

She would have been devastated—maybe not now, but later, when she learns the truth.

I’m like all the other horrible villains in her past. I take what I want, despite the casualties.

Eden deserves better.

Better than me and, most certainly, better than Albrecht.

Eden Da Luca deserves a good man in her life—not one who sleeps in closets at rundown motels. She deserves a life of luxury, filled with ballrooms and tiaras—not a life where she wields the villain’s blade as if it were a hero’s sword.

But, like me, she’s stubborn. She’s choosing to roam in the shadows, knowing it steals her light.

“Why the closet?” Eden’s hands slip beneath my shirt. “Why is it your sanctuary?”

For some reason, I don’t want to lie. I don’t want to shut her out like everyone else.

“The closet…” I start, inhaling the scent of her hair. She showered at some point tonight, and no longer smells like me.

How disappointing.

“In order to tell you about the closet, I must first tell you about the congressman.”

She rubs my chest gently. “I’m listening.”

She’s listening.

She’s standing at the Tree of Knowledge, begging for the secret that will destroy her.

But I can’t do it.

Not tonight.

“You already know that I was stolen at birth and given away to a family who wanted a child.”

She inhales as her fingers dance along my skin, offering me a distraction and the strength to continue.

“I come from a world of the politically wicked,” I explain. “But I was never meant to. I should have lived in the world of plastic surgeons—born to the youngest son of Harrison Potter. He had steep dreams for his three boys—all but one living up to his standards.”

“No,” she teases softly. “Not another Potter rebel.”

I chuckle. “Dr. Depressing would love to hear you call his lame ass a rebel, but yes, Harrison wasn’t impressed with his youngest son. Unlike his brothers, Duke preferred spending his evenings buried inside my mother instead of books.”

“Sounds like someone else I know.”

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