Page 29 of Elicit (Decadence After Dark)

Kayne shakes his head, his off-colored eyes guarded. “Some things are better taken to the grave.”

“When you say shit like that, it scares me.”

“It should.”

“I don’t like you harboring things.”

“I’ll be fine once we burn his fucking complex to the ground.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so.”

“Then I’ll just have to trust you. As frightening as that is.”

Kayne smiles wickedly. “My unpredictability keeps us alive.”

“Says you,” I scoff.

“We’re still here, aren’t we?”

“Barely.”

“I can live with barely.”

“That’s because you’re reckless.” I stand and scoop up the box.

“Isn’t that why you like me?”

“Whoever said I like you?”

“I’m sorry. Love me.” He bats his eyes like the fucking idiot he is.

I chuckle reluctantly. “You’re a moron,” I declare. But we both know I do love him. Like an annoying stray you feel sorry for and keep feeding because the guilt would eat you alive if you let him starve to death.

“Any word from the elusive Mr. A?” Kayne asks as he walks out of the room with me. He’s talking about Alistair. My free-roaming uncle.

“Only a picture message of a surfboard on a beach. He’s having fun wherever he is.”

“Lucky bastard.”

“What? Your Mexican getaway wasn’t relaxing enough?”

“Keep walking before I pummel you.” We split off, Kayne in the direction of the gym and me up the stairs to London’s room. This package is really for her.

“London?” I knock, but no answer. It’s Sunday, so she’s probably with the rest of the girls unwinding. There’s an entire mobile spa downstairs. The house will be quiet for a while.

I crack open the door with the intention of leaving the box with a note when I hear the shower. I know I shouldn’t. I should just leave her be. She’s had a long week. But even as I try to talk myself out of it, my feet gravitate to the sound of the running water and the image of a naked, soapy, redheaded goddess.

But the reality is far more different than the fantasy, because when I enter the steamy room, I don’t find London standing under the spray lathering up or washing off. I find her curled in a ball on the floor, sobbing.

Rushing to the shower, I haul open the glass door. “London?”

She looks up at me with a fright. Then her gaze turns lethal.

“Get out!” She grabs the bottle of shampoo and chucks it at me. I deflect it with my forearm before it hits me in the face. Damn, the woman can throw. “Get out right now!” she screams like a banshee, and I take the hint. Backing out of the room, I quickly give her space. My heart beats like a battering ram as I lurk by the doorway, waiting for the shower to turn off. Once the water stops, I peek into the bathroom, just to make sure she isn’t thinking about doing anything stupid.

Which, by the looks of it, she isn’t. She’s just standing in front of the mirror, wrapped in a towel, staring at herself.

---