That day, I’d swallowed my reaction to him and treated him worse than I treated others, if I was honest. I never got over the way I treated him. It had kept me up many nights, self-hatred burning all over my skin. I’d lapsed into fantasies of what might’ve happened had I been a normal, well-adjusted woman able to be warm and inviting.
Everyone was now looking at me expectantly. “Then what?” Harriet prompted.
I opened my mouth, struggling to find the lie. Where had they all gone? Underneath it all, I was nothing but a lie. But in this house, with these people, I was unable to find a single one.
“Then I saw through her bullshit,” Duke said, pulling me into his side, kissing my head. “And I made sure she knew that she couldn’t act her way out of everything.”
So yeah, that had been a fucking disaster.
Because the drunk version of me had let myself sink into that feeling, until we were called to the dinner table, at least. I’d been shocked sober enough to move quickly and not make eye contact with Duke.
Dinner-table conversation had been easy, with Duke asking about the ranch, his father updating him on things I didn’t quite understand. There was definitely tension between Duke and his brother. I was infinitely curious about that, until I reminded myself it was not my place to be curious about such things.
I managed to eat almost an entire plate full of delicious pot roast and mashed potatoes, and all because the tequila needed something to soak it up.
Then came dessert.
And the pie, staring at me, showing me just how fucked up I was, and how I could never sit at a table like this and fit in.
Most people would’ve just shut the hell up and eaten the piece of damn pie. It was the polite thing to do. But I was not most people. I wanted to shut the hell up and eat the damn pie. I couldn’t. Physically couldn’t. The pie represented the last shred of control I had over my life, my body.
And even my body wasn’t mine now. It was Duke’s. It was a roadmap of tenderness he’d managed to fake so well that it was seeping inside me.
My words weren’t my own, since they were all lies about how much I loved Duke. How he was mine.
And while other men were looking to control my death, my life certainly wasn’t mine. My survival was dictated by men.
So yeah, this pie meant a lot more than a break in a long-held diet.
But refusing it turned me into something in the eyes of these friendly, kind people. People who had accepted me into their family like it was easy, like I was someone normal.
Tears crawled from somewhere deep inside my soul to threaten the backs of my eyes. I never cried. Not in real life at least. It was a weak and clichéd form of emotion I’d trained myself against. One thing I could thank my foster parents for—making me determined enough not to give them the satisfaction of my tears.
Their cruelty had made it impossible for me to cry, yet here I was, confronted with naked kindness and it was enough to break me.
Just as the tears were about to fall, a large arm stretched in front of me.
“I’ll take her share,” Duke said easily. “Trust me, her avoidance of dessert almost made me rethink this whole relationship. But even that couldn’t keep me from her.”
The way he said it, that the man had just saved me from having to eat the pie—from giving up the last shred of control I had over my life—I almost believed he cared.
Almost.
I had the ability to feel absolutely full of things one moment and utterly empty the next—the product of an upbringing filled with chaos, pain and fear. I’d perfected the ability to drain myself of those things quickly for survival. For sanity.
Never had that ability been as essential as it was tonight, when I somehow lost myself in the magic that this family—this place—had. Lost myself in strong margaritas. Or maybe let tequila find parts of me that I didn’t know I had, a person I didn’t know I was.
I was not someone who drank margaritas. Nor was I someone who shared personal details—real personal details, not carefully created—with strangers. I was not a person who pretended to be in a relationship with a macho man to whom I was utterly attracted, and didn’t like very much.
Or I liked him too much.
No, I wasn’t that person.
But being shown to the room upstairs, beautifully decorated—complete with a four-poster bed, vanity, and en suite—and then kissed on the cheek by Anna, I wanted to be that person. Desperately.
But the door closed. Then it was just Duke and me in the room. And I deflated. I emptied. Because the cocktails had worn off, and the façade was no longer required.
He was just the man paid to keep me alive until my testimony.
And I was Anastasia Edwards. Superstar. Bitch.
So I settled into her, even as Duke looked at me the same way he had when I told the story of how we met. Something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Fire. Interest.
It couldn’t affect me.
“Are we staying here the entire time?” I asked, my voice cold, superior, my expression the same.
He furrowed his brows. Surprise first, then more of that distaste that I found comfort in. I couldn’t stand him looking at me like he was trying to figure me out. Many men had tried. Many news organizations, reporters, and fans had tried to do it too. A lot of those people were stupid, lazy, and lacked the right motivation to really figure me out.
Duke was none of those things.
I would take him hating who he thought I was instead of finding out who I really am.
“Yeah. It’s not the Four Seasons, but it’ll keep a bullet out of that pretty little forehead,” he said, voice tight, dripping with disdain.
I didn’t let it bounce off me, didn’t try to deflect it. I had to let it sink in. I had to find a peace inside all this. This here, this look, this tone was what was real. Everything outside of the door was an act. “You don’t like me.” I made sure to make the words flat. Not curious. Not hopeful.
“No.”
He didn’t even pause in his response.
It shouldn’t have hurt like it did. Plenty of people disliked me. None of them knew me, which was what I told myself. Duke didn’t know me. He knew who I wanted him to know, and he disliked me because I wanted him to.
Regardless, it hurt.
I pursed my lips and folded my arms. “If this is going to be a sticking point, we can arrange for someone else to take your place.” Even saying it was an effort. Sure, it would be easier to have a hot stranger who I didn’t feel these things for. I wouldn’t be battling this inner turmoil. But then I’d have to focus on the reality of the situation. Then I wouldn’t have Duke.
His jaw hardened. “Coupla things. I’m fuckin’ good at my job. To be fair, every single one at Greenstone is fuckin’ good at their jobs. Which means, you’ll stay alive if you stay smart.” He paused, to be sure it was made known he didn’t think I was smart. “I’m also a professional. I don’t have to like you to keep you alive.”
I bit my lip and his gaze flickered down. He noted that, like it was something more than the nervous gesture it was, his brows furrowing for a beat before he kept speaking.
“Second thing, most of my brothers have wives. Kids. Goes without saying this job comes with more risks than most. Also goes without saying each of those men are pretty fuckin’ capable of mitigating risks and danger. But Kitsch is serious. We’ve gone up against serious. We got our scars from that. We got through. But this fuckin’ guy will use anything and anyone to get to you. I don’t have a wife or kids to be endangered. So, princess, I don’t give a shit if you’d rather someone more agreeable to you, you’ve got me.”