Dance of Ruin: Chapter 24

By the time I get back to the penthouse, I’ve almost convinced myself I’m calm.

Spoiler: I’m not.

Naomi’s in our dressing room when I walk in, her back to me, buttoning up a soft gray blouse over a knee-length black pencil skirt. She looks like she’s about to go take the Bar Exam or apply to Harvard.

“I’m going to see my father.”

Her eyes meet mine in the mirror for a second before she drops her gaze and smooths the fabric over her hips.

She doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t have to. It’s clear from the stiffness in her body and the tightness in her face that she’s seen the tabloid article.

And now she’s on her way to go meet the man who orchestrated the attack that nearly killed my sister?

I don’t say anything. I honestly don’t know what the fuck to say right now.

I forbid it?

Over my dead body?

Get on your knees and I’ll fuck that mouth into submission for daring even to think about it?

Instead, I lean against the doorframe and just…watch her. My fingers twitch with the need to grab her. Keep her here, with me.

If I let her go, she might not come back the same.

She might not come back at all.

But I find myself immobile, just standing there, staring at the woman I was supposed to ruin.

That was the plan. A calculated chessboard move: use her and destroy her.

Punish Leonard by breaking his golden child, and leaving the mess at his door.

That’s…not the plan anymore.

I don’t know when it changed, or how, but it did.

Somewhere between her walking into my office and me fucking her on that stage, she stopped being leverage and became the one thing I want to keep.

She slowly turns to face me, her lip worrying between her teeth as if she knows exactly what I’m thinking. Her eyes slowly lift to mine.

“Look, there’s…” my brow knits. “There’s a new player in New York; dangerous, well-funded, very well organized.” I grit my teeth, trying to decide how much to tell her.

“They may have been behind the car-bombing.”

I look away.

“Nico.”

Her fingers brush my jaw, turning my gaze back to met hers.

“Your father may have hired them to do so.”

She’s heard this before, and she does an admirable job of keeping her face completely neutral.

But I don’t miss the wince in the corners of her eyes. The way the tendons alongside her neck stand out for a second, like she’s biting back a bitter grimace.

“I can get the truth from him.”

My brows pull tight. “What?”

Her voice doesn’t shake. “If my father was behind what happened at your family’s house—if he had anything to do with the bombing—I want to hear him say it.”

I’m trying to figure out what the hell I’m looking at.

This isn’t the trembling girl I tied to my bed. This is a woman about to walk into a den of wolves and demand answers.

For me.

“Naomi—”

“I’m not doing it for you,” she says quickly.

Fucking little mind reader.

“He’s my father, but that doesn’t mean blind loyalty. If he did this…if he hurt people I care about…then blood means nothing.”

Her voice wavers slightly on the word care.

I take a step toward her.

“To be clear: I’m not asking you to do this,” I murmur.

“I know.”

I stare at her. Trying to memorize this beautiful version of her—the fire in her eyes, the purpose in her stance.

But then she smirks. A little too bitterly and quickly.

“What’s the matter, Nico?” she says with a smirk as she slips past me. “Worried about me? Or just worried I’ll be late for your next little game?”

The joke hits harder than I expect, and for once, I don’t parry.

Instead I whirl, grab her arm, and spin her back to face me. Her breath catches as my hand possessively cups her jaw.

“Yes,” I say quietly. “I’m worried about you.”

She blinks. The sarcasm fades. Her mask cracks.

“Well,” she says quietly, “I’ll just have to be careful, then.”

I shake my head. “I don’t like this meeting idea.”

She smiles. “Good thing it’s not you going to it.”

Then, without any preamble, she gets up on her tiptoes, leans in, and kisses me.

“I’ll call you after.”

Yeah, not me already planning to spend the next however many hours staring at my phone, waiting for that fucking call.