My eyes ran over his torso frantically. Shame crawled into me when I realized it wasn’t only sorrow I felt. Butterflies flung their tiny wings in my chest and my nipples puckered. I liked what I was seeing. He was perfectly imperfect. Flawlessly flawed. Most importantly—he was Vicious.

“You never told any else? The police? A teacher?”

His dead eyes blinked once. “There wasn’t much point by then. Jo and my dad were traveling a lot, and Daryl was barely ever around. Drugs.” He shrugged. “He died shortly after you left town. Overdosed and drowned in his own Jacuzzi.” He tilted his head sideways. “Shame.”

A shiver broke down my spine. I remembered every word of their conversation that first day in the library. No. Vicious was incapable of killing someone. But was he really…? I didn’t want to ask him about it. Both because I wasn’t ready for his answer and because it would’ve caused another moral debate, and my head was aching as it was.

“Vicious…” I was breathless. He moved toward me. Our bodies touched. I wanted to melt into him, but knew better than to give in to that temptation. He was so haunted and troubled. And on top of everything else, he was still hateful to me.

For Lord’s sake, the man still referred to me as “Help.”

Yet when his body pressed against mine, warm and comforting, nothing like the man it belonged to, I couldn’t pull away. We were flush against each other, but his arms were at his sides. We were both liars, telling ourselves that as long as we didn’t use hands, this didn’t count. Only it did. In my heart, it did.

“It’s a mess, but it’s my mess,” he said. “I won’t drag you into this shit in court. Jo doesn’t deserve a penny, but whatever happens with the will, this stays between me and her.” He dropped his eyes to my lips. He was so close, I was able to taste the saltiness of his warm, naked skin and the heat of his mouth. “You get out of this unscathed. I know you think I’m a piece of shit, and you have a good reason to, but I’m not asking you to perjure yourself. I would never complicate your life like that. Never. I just need you to help me frighten Jo enough to back off if there’s a problem with the will.”

Torn, I shook my head. “I’m sure your friends can help you just as much, if not more.”

“They don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t told them. Not about Daryl Ryler, not about Jo. I’m not proud of this, Help. I let them do this to me. For years. You’re the only one who knows, other than Eli Cole and a shrink I hired myself a few years ago.”

I could have told him a lot of things. That it wasn’t his fault. That there was nothing to be ashamed of. That he wasn’t alone. But I knew Vicious well enough to know that wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He was too proud for a pep talk. What he wanted was cooperation.

“Then ask your psychiatrist,” I said.

“That would be very messy, very expensive, and very public. No. This is personal. Private. I want to deal with Jo quietly, and we both know you can keep a secret.”

Pink.

Black.

“How do I know you’re not lying?” I made my voice stone cold, ignoring the compliment. But this made sense. I knew what I heard in the library all those years ago. But after Vicious’s behavior toward me, I’d chosen to believe it was just an ugly family argument.

“You don’t. You’ll have to trust me.”

“And what on earth have you ever done to make me think you’re trustworthy?” I wrinkled my nose, taking a step away. Being so close to him wasn’t helping.

The back of his hand brushed my cheek, and my heart leaped. I retreated again.

“I was an asshole, but I never lied to you. Not once. Josephine came after my family’s money with her brother, and she did some nasty stuff to get what she wanted. This is payday for her. But not in the way she hopes it will be.”

I closed my eyes, shaking my head.

When I didn’t answer, he took my hand and pulled me toward a chair. It was five in the morning, and I’d lost my appetite for the written word.

“Stay.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“Because I order you to.”

“No.”

He dipped his head down and shook it, exhaling sharply. “Fuck, then do it because I want you to. It’s been a long day. Don’t decide right now. Just sit here while I work and get used to seeing my sour-ass face again. I won’t try and bribe you again. Instead, I’ll ask that you think about what you, Emilia, consider as justice. Because I know you’re good and I know I’m bad, but at the end of the day, I suspect we have the exact same moral code.”

I perched on the chair across from his, but only because I was too shocked to continue standing. Vicious’s confession, combined with the fact I suspected Ryler hadn’t really died a natural death, almost paralyzed me completely.

I slowly reached for a leather-bound book on the corner of the table. I raised an eyebrow at him when I spotted the title on the spine. “Little Women?”

He only shrugged.

I opened the book but didn’t really read anything. Every few seconds, my eyes would drift back to Vicious.

His gaze was still on the screen when he said, “Is there something else on your mind, Help?”

I hated that we were back to what we were before his confession.

“Am I an idiot for sitting here with you?” I asked, honestly interested to know what he made of this whole situation.

A ghost of a smile passed across his face. “You’re a lot of things. An idiot has never been never one of them.”

“Then what am I?”

“You’re…” He looked up, inspecting me. Sometimes people could communicate with a stare alone, and his eyes said mine, but his mouth said, “Complicated. You’re complex. It’s not a bad thing.”

I wanted to tell him that he didn’t deserve my help, that I hated him, but that wasn’t the truth. At least not the latter. Even if I was considering lying for him, I didn’t want to make a habit out of it, so I just kept my mouth shut.

He tangled his leg with mine purposely under the table, daring me to pull away. I didn’t. I liked his warmth. I liked his long, muscular leg laced with mine. I liked how after a few minutes of pressing his leg harder into my calf, he used his knee to nudge my legs apart. I let out a sigh.

But all throughout, he didn’t look at me. Not even once. I pretended to keep reading, and he tapped the table with a chewed pen. My hands tightened on the book when I recognized the name printed on the pen’s side. I realized that it was my pen. The pen I’d used when he came to McCoy’s.

Then he lifted his eyes and sent me another relaxed smile. “By the way, I took it upon myself to tell your little friend Rachelle that you won’t be returning to the bar for any more shifts. I trust you girls can live off your current salary. You’re all mine now, LeBlanc. And you’re welcome.”

IT HAPPENED. I FELL UNDER.

After staying awake for eighty-four hours straight, my body finally gave in and completely shut down. It happened in my old bedroom, and I barely made it into bed, but I did. I was still shirtless—mainly because I liked how she looked at me when I was working and she was reading. But it was morning, and I knew that I was going to sleep for a long time and that sooner or later, she’d realize that something was wrong. That people don’t just disappear for so many hours in the middle of the day.

I woke up thirteen hours later and it was evening again. There was noise coming from the broad hallway outside my room, and I hoped it was Help, even though I knew it wasn’t. I was right, of course. It was my father’s nurses, Josh and Slade. They were arguing among themselves about the Raiders and the Patriots, and I was not impressed. The two fuckers had woken me up.

I passed by the beefy men and walked straight into my father’s bedroom. He must’ve been discharged from the hospital and returned while I was asleep. And surprise, surprise, Jo was still nowhere to be found. Guess Cabo was more important than standing by your man in his final weeks. Or days.

The gravity of the situation weighed heavy on my shoulders, but this was what I’d waited for, for so long. Ever since I was twelve.

Now, it was time.

Daryl was dead.

Dad was dying.

And soon, Josephine’s life would be over too.

I kept the door open. The nurses glanced my way but continued bickering in the hall, flinging their arms around as they talked football.

“Hey, Dad.” I smiled, leaning a shoulder against his wall with my hands tucked inside my pockets. I rested my head beside a Charles-Edouard Dubois painting—it was good, but I liked Emilia’s shit better—and enjoyed the view.

The man who’d ruined my life looked like a cheap carbon copy of the man he used to be. Completely bald, pallid in color, with a neck like a lizard’s, his veins sticking out from his saggy, thin skin. I looked nothing like him and exactly like my mother, which I guessed was part of the reason why Jo hated my guts.

“Don’t lie, son. Jo and Daryl would never do such a thing,” he told me when I showed him my scars. My wounds. My pain.

“She locks me in there with him,” I argued for the millionth time.

“Jo says you do it to yourself. Is this about attention, Baron? Is that what you want?”