Page 13 of Reckless Hearts

Not, obviously, because of the crestfallen look on Callie’s face that she tries to chase away with wine. Even more obviously, if I didn’t know for a fact that this…thiscrushshe has on Castle isn’t the least bit reciprocated, he and I would already be at the far end of the rooftop, where I’d be showing him the express route down to Central Park.

Again: I know everything. And I don’t mean that to sound arrogant, it’s just merely the truth. Although, yes, I suppose a bit of arrogance sort of comes with the territory with my…neurodivergence.

Or, if we’re being blunter, “non-societally conforming psychopathic tendencies with a ludicrously high IQ, childhood demons up the ass, and a God complex”.

And I won’t ever apologize for any of that.

Soon enough, just about everyone has seats. My lips curve up just a hint at the corners as I drop my gaze to the still-empty chair across from me. As I said, humans are sheep. Clearly, there’s nobody sitting there. But all it took was one thing “off”—in this case, a fork out of place on the otherwise perfectly laid table—for everyone to unanimously pass on this one seat.

Slowly, my eyes drag up to where Dahlia has just stepped under the string lights of the arbor. She was furthest away from the table when Ya-ya rang the bell.

There’s now exactly one seat left.

She swallows as she comes to a stop right behind it. Her eyes raise to mine, and she trembles a little when she realizes I’m staring right at her.

“Dahlia, please,” I say, gesturing with a hand. “Why don’t you have a seat and join us?”

She just stands there, and I look at her so hard it’s a wonder she doesn’t spontaneously combust. But of course, the moment is lost on the rest of them as they all dig into their dinners. I even join in, letting Dahlia finally take her seat and sit there knowing I’ve got her exactly where I want her. And I can tell she’s so discombobulated by my evenbeinghere that she’s incapable of talking to anyone around her, or taking a bite of food, or even a sip of champagne.

I, on the other hand, readily and easily carry on a lively conversation with Hades and Elsa to my left. My older brother’s been ahell-raiserhis entire life. But I have to admit, Elsa Guin seems to have—well, I won’t say quelled that, because one, no one’s capable of doing that to Hades, and two, because he’d never fall for someone who “tamed” him or made him into something he’s not or any of that bullshit.

But what shehasdone, it’s clear to me, is complete him.

I won’t lie: I envy that. Or at least I understand that Ishouldenvy that.

But even as I chat with Elsa about her recent promotion to partner status at Crown and Black, the law firm which bears the name of my own personal attorney, Alistair Black, my attention is half-directed across the table, to Dahlia.

And I hate that it is.

I want so badly to erase her from my psyche. To forget her completely and be done with it. Tonothave my attention pulled to her over and over again, like a moth to a deadly flame. But six years on, it appears I’m still incapable of doing any of that.

It doesn’t help that in those six years, she’s gone from beautiful to stunning. She’s grown more into herself than when she was a somewhat shy nineteen-year-old, when we were at Knightsblood together.

She’s grown into a woman I’m quite honestly having a hard time keeping my eyes away from.

Dahlia’s mother is French, and her father was Iranian. She was blessed with the best of both gene pools: full, dark brows and lashes that match the mane of thick black hair falling past her shoulders in waves. High, aristocratic cheekbones and an elfin chin. A lean, regal nose, plump, swollen red lips, and big green eyes.

For a moment, I pull myself away from my conversation with Elsa and Hades, turning my head and allowing my eyes to stab across the table into Dahlia.

Instantly, something sours in my core.

Because as gorgeous as she is, and as alluring her whole little “tragic backstory, innocent with a heart of gold” schtick is, I know now what I didn’t know back when I tangled with her six years ago: that the woman, despite all of her beauty, ispoison.

A toxin. A deadly venom for which there is no antidote. An incurable, transmitted-on-contact, terminaldisease.

Six years ago, I didn’t know that.

But I sure asfuckdo now.

After I saw the truth. Or rather, after I wasshownthe truth, in high definition, where it burned itself into my brain like the shadows of the dead on the sidewalks at Hiroshima, destroying what I believed I knew about a girl I thought I understood.

Who I thought understoodme.

Six years ago, I told her to run. I told her stay the fuck away.

She really,reallyshould have listened to me. Because now?

I turn fully, letting my piercing gaze eviscerate her across the table. Her eyes meet mine and a shiver runs over her body as her face goes chalk white.

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