Vendetta - Lane Sienna (чтение книг TXT) 📗

I focus my attention on their conversation, but pretend not to listen.

“Sweet, sweet Leighton,” Danny says, his voice suggestive, and I can barely restrain myself from punching his face in. “What about her?”

“She ran off to Ireland after some old guy,” Colin says. “Again.”

I can see why they would think that, although it wouldn’t be with an older guy. She's disappeared before, sometimes for months, only to come back home, and no one held it against her. I understood her in a way. Being her daddy's princess and the only daughter in the family, I’m sure it could get overbearing.

I consider this new bit of information. If Keith is letting this rumor spread, it means he doesn't know where she is. This is good.

“Oh, well.” Danny waves his hand, landing it with a smack on his playtoy’s ass. She giggles, and then grinds herself on his lap, throwing her head back with a moan. “Been there, done that.”

No, he didn't. I may think the worst of Leighton, but she would never stoop so low.

“Yeah, we know,” I tell Danny, keeping my voice casual as I lie through my teeth. God knows he's bragged about it before. Many times. Almost as many times as I’ve wanted to pound his head in.

I make a show of looking at my watch, and then stand up. “I'm out,” I tell them. Colin stands up, too, a show of respect. I want to laugh because he shouldn't stand up for me, but I just nod at him. Danny is back to making out with the toy in his lap, making loud smacking noises. He doesn’t acknowledge my leaving and I don’t really care.

I park my car in the garage and make my way inside. Once inside my room, I take off my clothes, which reek of cigars. I take a quick shower to get rid of the smell before lying down, with my hands behind my head.

I allow myself to wonder what she could be doing right now. Probably sleeping, like she did last night when I went into her room.

I force myself to think about something else, like the scene at the club. Soraya, Danny, Colin. Keith.

Leighton.

It's no use.

I sit up, throwing my legs over the edge of the bed, my head in my hands. I'm pulling at my hair so hard I might just rip it all out.

I pause for a second before I get up, contemplating. What’s the harm in going up there again?

I throw sweatpants on over my boxers and go up to the third floor. I unlock the door and enter the room. She's sitting on her bed reading, thankfully wearing some proper clothes. Her eyes meet mine, her eyebrows drawn in confusion.

I take a seat in my chair. She doesn't go back to reading her book, her face transformed into an expression of annoyance.

“Princess,” I say. “Apparently you ran off. Again.”

Her eyes water because she knows what it means, just like I knew. Nobody knows where she is. She's trying not to let herself cry, but a single tear streaks her cheek. I can’t stand her crying. It just doesn't suit her. I want to go over to her, but I don't, of course, I'm not making that mistake again. Besides, I said it on purpose, gave her a message.

Now I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.

She wipes the tear with the back of her hand, and once I see her face again, it's schooled into perfect control. She actually thinks she can get the upper hand with me.

I remember that little striptease, and suddenly it's hard to breathe.

“So I'm wondering,” I continue, before she gets any ideas, “did you really sleep with Danny?”

Her look changes from anger to confusion to realization. She bursts into laughter, and, fuck, my heart swells, because it's the best sound I’ve heard all day.

That thought sobers me up.

“What, your friend, Danny, the short sleaze? I don't think so,” she says, seemingly lost in thought and I freeze mid-smile. Then she laughs again. “Oh, you should see your face right now. No, I have better taste than that.” She gives me a pointed look.

I don’t want to know what her taste is, really. So we sit in awkward silence when I leave that comment hanging.

“Are you going to keep watch over me now? Afraid the lock and the bars won't hold me in?”

“Yes,” I tell her. In reality, I have no idea why I'm here.

“Devon,” she says, her voice losing its pitch. “What are you going to do with me?”

I ignore her because I don't want to lie to her. And I don't want to tell her the truth now that I’m not acting on impulse. Not yet.

“Devon?”

I close my eyes and lean my head back. I'm not afraid she'll try anything; she's not the one in control right now.

She huffs and I hear the rustle of sheets, and the click of the lamp. I sit in the darkness, I don't know for how long. After her breathing evens out, I close my eyes, too.

six

LEIGHTON

I don’t know why I feel calmer in his presence, even after everything. I just do. Stockholm syndrome, it has to be.

Especially after what he’d told me. No one knows where I am.

I try not to dwell, tilting my head to look at Devon as a distraction. He must be so uncomfortable, having slept in that chair all night again. He’s still fast asleep, and my eyes take him in greedily. His hair is messy, like he has run his hands through it, and his face is so relaxed and almost boyish. I'd use the word handsome to describe him, but it doesn’t seem like enough.

I take my blanket and drape it over him, and then head to the bathroom. I wash my face and brush my teeth before trying to tame my hair, brushing it and smoothing it out. When I walk out of the bathroom, Devon is awake and sitting on the bed, his elbows on his knees, with his head down.

“Devon?” I say, concerned. His posture screams defeat, and I don’t like seeing him like this. He instantly sits up straight, maintaining his facade. He takes my reader from next to the bed, and turns it on. I groan when I remember what I was reading last night.

“Never took you for a whips and chains kinda girl,” he says after a few moments.

“I’ll try anything once,” I say with a nonchalant shrug. His eyes widen for a second, his interest evident.

“Is that right?” he asks, returning the reader to the side table.

“Sure. You only live once, right?” I say as I sit down next to him, leaning into his personal space.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks suspiciously, scooting away. I lift my hand and place it on his shoulder, ignoring his flinch when we make contact.

“You’re so tense,” I say as I sit up on my knees and start to massage his shoulders. He groans when my fingers find a knot, and I work it out with my thumb. He makes a noise deep in his throat that causes a tug in my lower belly and my heart to race.

He is masculine perfection.

And not meant for me.

I sigh, pulling my hands away, and sitting back on the bed in silence.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice slightly hoarse.

“Anytime,” I reply, meaning it.

“I’ll get you some breakfast.” He stands up from the bed, but doesn't leave.

“I’m going crazy in here, Devon,” I tell him, my tone wavering slightly.

He turns to face me, his eyes staring into mine. His hands clench into fists. “I can’t take you out, Leighton.” The regret in his tone confuses me.

“How long am I supposed to stay cooped up like this?” I ask, standing up and putting my hands on my hips.

He doesn't say anything, just looks at me, heaving a heavy sigh because we've been over this. I know it, but I'm not about to give up.

“I want pancakes for breakfast.” I decide to be difficult, narrowing my eyes at him, daring him to say no.

“Fine,” he grumbles, taking a step toward me, leaning in, his face just inches from mine. His eyes dance between my lips and my own eyes. For a second, for a terrifying and exciting second, I think he’s going to kiss me. I could help him. I could just close the small distance between us and finally taste his lips after all this time. I can see that he wants it, but he’s fighting it.