“Is that so?” As she pushed back to her feet, the makeshift dye foils crinkled in strange harmony. She was aware that at this point, her new look would be more an ombre than monochrome, but she cared not. It felt too good to get to this part of the confrontation. “Well, spare me any more brutans in the names of care and concern.”
His dark brows bunched. “Brutans?”
“The literal translation is beast,” she explained. “It can be said with affection…or other things.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “Other things. Like ire at your brother…or a soundly chapped hide at the guy who turned down your delicious body in his infirmary bed.”
And he was really taking things there, as well.
She should have been glad for it. She should have stopped right there, after taking two and a half steps between the vanity and her soaking tub and turned to give him a look that at least thanked him for the concession. Because that is exactly where it would end. She had to resign herself to that. She would have to stay content with five-margarita lunches, rainbow hair experimentations, and peering at the same ocean, off the same balcony, every day. The docile princess in her tower realm, not wanted by anyone now…
Except…that was not true anymore. At least she theorized. On top of her hopeful praying, of course.
But Brickham had come to her, not the other way around. He had coordinated with Jagger—or someone—to get access to her suite and then gimped his way over on that cane, even with three bullet wounds and a body littered in bruises. Had he gone through all that just to apologize? Just to leave her like this, frustrated and rejected?
Perhaps.
All right, probably.
She was not intimate with every gear in his heart and soul, but the code of his personal honor was a key priority for him. She knew that part with more clarity than anything else.
So maybe she did need to stop, turn, and accept his effort at a friendzone framed in that integrity.
But that single stab of doubt kept twisting at her brain, digging at her heart…gnawing at her certainty.
She let the discomfort lift her head. She also let it push a rejoinder to her lips.
“If it had only been about my body, do you think my hide would be that chapped?”
Not a flinch of surprise from him, though she expected none. But nor did he let fly with the comeback she expected, which had her yearning to jump into the tub and take cover on the spot.
Why had she just said that? Exposed so much of herself to him? Let him see all the parts in which he was clearly not interested, nor had any obligation to care about? Their moments in Paris were just an escape. A transition. A means of getting somewhere else.
Trouble was, she still had no idea where she was going. Not a damn clue.
“It wasn’t simply about my body either, Pixie.”
And damn it, with statements like that, he was not helping things. “Of course not,” she snipped. “There are the other things. How could I forget? A checklist of them, right? You can officially fill in the bubble for fucking a princess now. And for safe-house sex too.” She tapped a finger to her chin. “Though does it count when it is only a safe-house apartment? And remember, you also get the points for taking my V card. That certainly counted for a few punchholes in your card…?”
“No!” His growl was immediate and violent. “I mean—damn it, every second with you was amazing, all right? No. Not amazing. Beyond that. Far beyond.”
He huffed before chucking his cane, using the same whoosh of motion to raise a fisted hand. But not for long. As he drove it against the vanity counter, her cosmetics jumped and the frame bulbs flickered. But his voice plummeted to a serrated murmur.
“You don’t believe me,” he growled. “And frankly, I don’t blame you. I handled things like a box of rocks back in the infirmary. I’m probably still a goddamned box of rocks, but hopefully you’ll let me paint them a prettier for you now.”
Jayd scoffed. “Rocks are still rocks, Brickham. They hurt when you throw them.”
One side of his mouth quirked. “But pain can be a good thing, Pixie.”
She worked for another scoff. Instead, wild and ravenous heat flowed up her body. Between the meaning in his murmur and the intensity across his face, she knew exactly what he was thinking about—the same place to which he compelled her imagination now. All the moments from Paris, in which he had proved that statement so true. And in which she had eagerly let him…
You’re really liking this, aren’t you, gorgeous?
Right here, right now, you’re my clay, sweetheart…to be molded, painted, and then incinerated…
Are you close now? Because I’m fucking you? Hurting you?
Memories.
All of it was only memories.
And he was only bringing it up to dislodge her. To soften her. Deflect her heart against the blows he already had inflicted on it.
But no way was he coaxing her away from the edge that easily. Not even with a whole crate of painted rocks at his disposal.
Unless…
The man was willing to join her on the precipice. Ohhh yes, on the edge with his toes all the way over, sucking the cliff face for dear life.
“You truly want me to look at your pretty new stones, Maximilian Brickham?”
He relaxed his fist. Threaded his extended fingers with those of his messy blue hand and folded them in his lap.
“I truly do, Jayd Dawne Cimarron.”
She hiked up her chin. Squared her shoulders.
“Then start by using the ones that really matter.” She hiked her chin higher and set her shoulders. “Tell me about Asha.”
He went rigid again. She was ready for that but held firm. His flared nostrils, terse lips, and tempestuous gaze were also solid dots on her radar of readiness. None of them diminished her determination.
Until he pulled in a breath that shuddered as if his throat had been fileted.
Then another, like the same cosmic demons had started dicing him up.
As he released the air, he grimaced deeply. She did too, feeling like the dirty salpu who had wielded the merciless knife. But not enough to let him out of this. Not enough to retreat from this path, feeling more important now that it was illuminated by his openly clonky response.
“Asha? What does she have to do with—”
“Anything?” Jayd cut in. “Or perhaps you meant everything?”
“Jayd—”
“Because when your mind decided to disappear in the middle of the Montmartre Cemetery, you called out for her. Then again, at least a dozen times, during your fever dreams as we flew here. And then on the second day I visited you in the infirmary, and Twylah asked me who she was…”
“Jayd.”
“Brickham.” She unclenched her teeth long enough to amend, “Do you truly want me to believe I was more than a convenient crotch for you? To see past your ugly rocks? Then pull a few out of your damn walls and talk to me. Have you not learned by now that I am not a delicate teacup? That I will not shatter if you tell me there is someone back at home, waiting—”
“Whoa.” He whisked up a hand. “There’s nobody waiting for me, okay?” He stabbed out a brutal stare. “Least of all Asha.”
“All right,” she replied quietly. “So she is someone from your past, then? And you still harbor feelings for—”