Page 51 of We Are the Match
In the lounge chairs, Hana’s women look on carefully, their expressions guarded. Neither of them is rushing to stop me, to peel apart my loosely closed hand, so they must not have seen me slip the locket from her. She touched the locket as we spoke of Lena and Troy, of the gifts Lena gave us. If there is some record of where Hana’s loyalties lie, it may not be in money trails or whispered secrets or any of the things I asked her to find on Marcus.
I hesitate, and then lift Hana’s silk wrap from the poolside and slide into it. I glance over my shoulder at her.
A small smile plays on her lips as she watches me. “Think of it as a gift.” She extends a hand toward her robe, now soft and warm against my skin.
I brush my hair over my shoulder with my good hand, my injured one still pressed against my chest. “Good night, Hana,” I tell her, as if we play on equal ground now. As if we ever did.
As if I were not here to topple them all.
Chapter 16
Helen
I had been so lost in pleasure, Paris’s ringed fingers slipping just inside me, teasing at my entrance, that I had not seen the tide turn, or felt it until it was far too late.
And I am humiliated now, bound and spread in a bed that smells of the woman who left me here: cedar and eucalyptus and worn leather, with the faintest hint of TNT.
It is hard to imagine a woman in motion like she is at rest, but there is a dent in her pillow proving me otherwise, and it is so unbearably Paris: the sheets are a soft gray; the bedspread a worn, woven thing; the pillow compressed as if she has tossed and turned upon it every night.
She will die, now, of course.
Not because my father will dispose of her when this supposed affair is done—though can it be called an affair if I have not even been allowed tocome?
But no, Paris will die because I will kill her myself, the second she unties these fucking ropes.
I strain at them now, pleasantly firm against my wrists.
Damn Paris and her expertly crafted knots.
I maneuver myself toward the side of the bed. Perhaps I can get some purchase on the edge, use the bedstead post to break the loop over my wrists.
Tommy is still outside the door, and he will come if I call. But the thought of Tommy seeing me like this is unthinkable.
I twist, pushing myself up to reach the bedstead, only to lose my balance, bound as I am, and fall, face down now, into Paris’s pillow.
I struggle again, biting my lip to keep from making noise, and then slump over in defeat, embarrassment only heightening my arousal. I will kill her—whenever she finally returns.
It feels like ages before I hear Paris again—an hour, maybe more. Finally, footsteps sound in the hallway just as I am trying to push myself back up off the pillow. I only succeed in getting my knees under me when Paris’s footsteps are outside the door, her old black boots sharp against the thin carpet of the apartment hallway.
And then Tommy’s voice—
“Where thefuckis she, Paris?”
He shoves through the door so hard it slams against the wall.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
It is a small mercy that I cannot see Tommy’s face.
“Goddamn it, kid,” Tommy continues.
“Get out!” I yell at Tommy. “Getout.”
Paris, damn her, laughs. I am turned so that I cannot see her face, but I can feel her gaze singe me all the same.
The door shuts, almost as loudly as it was opened, Tommy safely retreating from the horror he witnessed.
“I’m going to kill you,” I snarl at Paris.
