Page 58 of Deceive Me
Elliot kept her eyes on the ground. Deacon growled impatiently. A firm grip on her chin forced her to meet his gaze.
He expected her to snap at him, but the fact that she didn’t told him everything he needed to know about her emotional state. She’d put too much of herself out there; now she was pulling the scattered pieces back behind a wall, trying to rebuild her sense of safety, of self. Maybe that was a good thing. After all, he didn’t know his own feelings at the moment. And yet something inside him wouldn’t allow her a retreat.
What he really wanted was to ask her if she’d ever lie to him again. If he could trust his daughter with her. But asking was ridiculous if he couldn’t trust the answer. And so he stood there, staring down at her obscenely blue eyes, and said nothing.
“People are watching,” she finally said.
“Let them watch.” He wasn’t going to make the decisions he needed to make, do what he had to do, based on anyone but himself and his daughter. “Sydney…she missed you.”
A hint of navy darkened the outlines of her irises. “Did you tell her I quit?”
“We told her nothing of the sort,” Dain snapped over his shoulder, striding toward the front door. “Now stop mooning at each other and get your asses in gear.”
Deacon felt a corner of his mouth curl up in a grin despite the heaviness of the night. “Guess we’ve gotten our orders, huh?”
“Yes.” Elliot’s gaze dropped to his mouth as if fascinated.
“Then let’s stop mooning, Ell.”
Her voice went husky. “I’m not the one holding me here.”
Right. He dropped his hand.
“’Bout time,” Dain called as he pulled the front door open.
Inside, Dain split off toward the library. “I’m sure you want to see your girl first. Join us whenever you’re ready, Deacon. I’ll fill the others in on Kivuli and sons.”
Deacon nodded and walked toward the stairs, surprised to realize Elliot was right behind him. He was even more surprised to find Sydney’s light on and the door open. He moved into the doorway but stopped to lean against the frame, suddenly wishing he had a camera. No one else would believe him otherwise.
Saint had Sydney duty. The muscular guard sat cross-legged on Sydney’s rug, waving pink-tipped fingernails in the air as casually as if he were doing jumping jacks. Sydney, already dressed in her pajamas, sat opposite, mimicking him, her grin wide and happy and unmarred by the worry Deacon couldn’t seem to escape every time he looked at her. For his daughter’s sake he buried it as deep as he could before crossing the threshold of her bedroom. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
“Daddy, look!” Syd splayed her polished nails out for him to see. “Saint painted them.”
“Very nice.” Deacon pretended to inspect her tiny fingers, then looked to Saint’s. “That color becomes you, bro.”
The man’s grin held no embarrassment. “I have half a dozen nieces and nephews; I’m used to it. Pink happens to be my favorite shade, bro.”
Deacon detected a glint in Saint’s eyes that said he probably wasn’t talking fingernail polish. “Me too.” He bent to kiss Syd’s hand. “Why are you still up?”
“I was waiting for Elliot.”
“I’m right here, Syd,” Elliot said from the doorway. She crossed the room, but for once Sydney didn’t jump up and squeal and tackle her favorite person. Her smile was subdued, her gaze tracing the bruises already forming on Elliot’s face. A knot formed between her brows.
Elliot sat on the floor next to Saint, who eyed her face too, but not with surprise. More an analysis, trying to determine how incapacitated Elliot might be.
He’d seen this before, then. Dain had said as much, but the confirmation in Saint’s look had him cursing silently. And aching. This woman made him ache, and not just for sex. What would it mean to his family, to Sydney, to bring someone so broken into their lives?
“It’s okay, Sydney, I promise.” Elliot traced the puffy area around her eye. “It looks bad, but I’m okay. You don’t have to worry.”
His daughter had done too much of that lately. This morning she’d asked him if Fionn was going to die like Jules. Did she think Elliot might die too?
He couldn’t let her carry that fear. “Sydney—”
Without warning his daughter launched herself at Elliot. A faint groan left Elliot’s lips, but then she was cradling the child in her lap, her eyes bright with tears she would never shed and would probably deny if anyone dared to mention them. Sydney tilted her head to the side, settled a cheek against Elliot’s plumped breast.
His gaze met Elliot’s. She gave him a faint smile, then tucked her chin down to nuzzle Sydney’s head.
The sight struck him like a blow to his chest, forcing out every bit of air, every thought except one: how right they looked together. Madonna and child.
