Page 83 of Savannah Royals
I don’t like these thoughts. Don’t like them one bit. I peel myself off the door and go to the mirror instead. I stare at my reflection, and God help me, I like what I see. This woman in a white gown, who can hold her own at parties on Matthew DaMolin’s arm and breathe the same cigar-tainted air as Jack Morgan…Ilikeher.
Iamher, aren’t I?
The swirling, blurring lines of the con and the truth choke me. I’ve told Matthew so few lies and so many truths, yet an ocean of things unsaid still swells between us. And I wonder what would happen if I simply…let him see everything? Am I really so bad for wanting to have it all?
I shiver, chastised by thethought.
He would leave, you silly girl,I tell myself.If he knew the whole truth, he would be gone in a heartbeat. Expect nothing less.
You aren’t meant to be seen, Katarina.My mother’s haunting voice.If he can’t see you, he'll never catch you, will never leave you.
I spin away from the mirror in a swirl of skirts. These are dangerous thoughts, and I don’t want to be alone with them tonight. I simply can’t stand it.
In three strides, I’m back at my door, slipping soundlessly into the hallway. It’s pitch dark, but Matthew’s bedroom is just a few paces away. My heart rate ratchets up as the familiar thrill of evading detection rises. I slink down the hall, pausing outside his door. There’s a faint, flickering glow, a lit candle perhaps. I don’t knock, don’t think; I just wrap my fingers around the knob and turn.
I blink twice as I slip inside, adjusting to the candlelight.
Then twice more as I take in the jarring sight before me.
Two bodies twined in each other. Two tuxedo jackets haphazardly tossed, abandoned, on the bed. Two joined silhouettes in dim light—one standing, head tipped back, mouth slackened, the other kneeling, head pressed to waist. A pair of pants around a set of ankles, thick black socks stretching over calves. Calves transitioning into powerful thighs, a bare waist, broad shoulders, a familiar jawline, dark hair…
Not Matthew’s room, I realize. Ethan’s.
Ethan with shocked eyes and mouth agape, his gaze whipping toward me. Harry Astor, falling back on kneeling haunches in horrified surprise.
“Fuck,” I gasp. “Holy fuck.” I slam a hand over my eyes and scuttle backward through the door. “I’m sorry…I didn’t…I’m sorry!”
I slam Ethan’s door in a fluster and fly down the hallway to my own room. With trembling fingers, I thrust open the door, then shut it behind me.
Holy. Fuck.
Ethan and Harry Astor? I rub my hands over my face, trying to scrub away what I just witnessed.
I’ve seen all types in the Catacombs. Men loving men is not foreign to me, doesn’t shock me the way it might some. Christ, I’ve seen Tony swing both ways.
ButEthan?Womanizing, incorrigible Ethan? Heir to the DaMolin empire—that Ethan?
It doesn’t add up. It plain and simply doesn’t make sense.
Except…except IsawEthan at Harry’s house, all those months ago, in the dead of night. When we were casing Astor Manor. I watched them share a cigarette before disappearing inside together.
A quiet knock sounds at my door.
Fuck.“Come in,” I murmur. I swallow hard as—a mercifully fully-clothed—Ethan slips inside.
“To avoid future confusion,” he begins, clearing his throat, “Matt’s room is the last door at the end of the hall. Mine is second to last.”
My cheeks burn. “Ah. Got it.”
We’re both quiet, staring at the other. The secret hanging between us chokes the air from the room.
“Kat, about what you saw—”
I raise a hand to stop him. “I didn’t see anything.”
“Kat—”
“Honestly, Ethan,” I say. “I saw nothing. I’ll say nothing. I stayed in my room all night, slept the best sleep of my life here at Cherokee. That’s all anyone will ever hear from me.”
