Page 200 of Those Who Are Bound

Elliott

Doublefuck.

She didn’t mind that Becks was here, but… it wasn’t the best timing for him to show up. Tonight, of all nights. Since when did people fly halfway across the country without a heads up? Especially Becks?

That entire scene had been a shitshow. She hadn’t had time to orchestrate a response. She’d panicked. Jonah’s hand slipping from her waist when she’d relegated him to “friend”—no, worse, not even her friend: toLucy’sfriend—she’d recognized his anger and his hurt, his rejection, in that gesture.

But Becks had noted Jonah’s posturing. She had to deflect, throw him off.

Because she didn’t know how long Becks had been out on the patio, watching them. Had he noticed her interaction with Jonah? The play, the chemical reaction and rearranging of atoms in the air that always happened when she and Jonah were together? Had it blown back on him, out there in the darkness?

When they’d walked by the window, after leaving, and she’d looked in, Jonah had lookedpissed.He didn’t have the right to be, she told herself… but then again, maybe he did. There’d been, at least in her mind, a silent acknowledgment thathewould be the man walking her back to her house this evening—although she would have denied it, if pressed. And he’d definitely deserved better than the category she’d thrown him into.

In her defense, Becks didn’t know about him. And if she could get him back on a plane without him finding out about Jonah, all the better. She did not need her two worlds colliding before she could manage either one of these men’s reactions to the other.

To her.

Head spinning with the sudden change of events, she should be happy that Becks interceded. Because she would have caved to Jonah—how could she not?—which would have started the process of heartbreak all over again. From her revelations or further pushing, they’d never know now. Her resolve to tell Jonah the truth about herself… Well, Becks had interrupted that.

Should she take that as a sign?

Inside the house, Becks looked around. “You haven’t changed much.”

Elliott looked around, too, shrugging. “Why change it?”

“Because it’s your place now. Make your mark. He’s not coming back to yell at you for making it look too girly.”

Elliott grimaced. “Jesus, Becks.”

They were quiet for a minute. The last time they’d stood in this space together, her brother had just died. She’d been raging. He’d taken the brunt of her anger, understanding where it came from, and fucked her. He’d had to restrain her with a belt because she’d already gone mad and burned the rope.

Wrapped that belt around her and held the ends together, the leather biting into the flesh of her arms and stomach, as she screamed and kicked. Yelled obscenities. Cursed him to hell. Begged him to hurt her more, fuck her harder.

Anything to erase the vision of her brother; erase what they’d done to him.

Why she’d hated him, cursed him. Why she’d hated herself.

Elliott shook her head, looking away. They hadn’t spoken again for over a year afterward. Well, she hadn’t spoken to Becks. He’d sent word. Texts, cards.

Moving farther into the room, Becks took off his watch. It was a tell of his; he did it when he was tired. It was also one of the first things he did before they had sex. Interestingly, she wasn’t alarmed or opposed. It was… ingrained.

So it surprised her when he asked, “Who is he, Ellie?”

Her attention moved from where he’d laid his watch on the counter to him. “Who?”

“Your pretty little friend’s friend who looked like I was taking something of his,” Becks answered, stare unyielding and penetrating. A detective’s stare, already bracing for the lie about to come out of her mouth while silently warning her not to tell it.

“I told you. His name is Jonah.” Not a lie.

“Let me rephrase, little girl. Who is he toyou?” He loosened his tie.

“No one.” God, that hurt. She couldn’t look at him as she said it. She reached up and started to push off the shoulder strap of her dress. Years of habit, like slipping into a familiar skin. She pictured her inner demon stretching its back, recognizing this pattern, this prey. A spike of lust shot through her, on cue. It didn’t even register with herwhatshe was doing until—

“What are you doing?” His question was sharp, reprimanding.

Startled, she stopped. Jesus, whatwasshe doing? “I wasn’t thinking.” It sickened her; she made herself ill. Replacing the strap, she squelched the inappropriate response. This wasn’t what she wanted, and Becks wasn’t who she wanted.

She tried to calm her mind by blaming the residual feelings Jonah had stirred; justified it by saying her wires got momentarily crossed.

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