The chair creaks behind me, the sound of Macon rising. He comes to stand beside me at the rail. “Not the exact words I used, but yeah.”

Now I understand. There was no way Macon would let Sam get away after that. The fact that he even considered my offer and didn’t pursue vengeance stuns me. I’d be out for blood.

It takes me a few tries to find my voice. “Do you . . . do you regret the deal we made?”

The crash of the sea grows louder in our shared silence. When he answers, his voice is low and wary. “No.”

I turn to him. He’s staring off into the night, the lines of his body hard. When I made my offer, I thought he was the one getting the better deal. That my begrudging services were something of greater worth to him. Now, I have to wonder . . . “Why did you agree to it?”

I watch his jaw work, tensing and releasing as though he’s sorting through multiple answers. His coal-dark eyes finally find mine. There’s nothing in his expression when he gives me his answer. “I really don’t know.” He huffs out a humorless laugh. “I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

He leaves me standing there, shocked and unsettled as all hell. I stare out at the waves glinting in the waning light. Somewhere out there is my sister.

“Damn you, Samantha,” I whisper with a sharpness that scrapes my throat. If she were here, I’d make her face her mistakes. If she were here, I would no longer have to be. I could escape, go back to my orderly life, and forget about Macon Saint—or the terrifying truth that I am in real danger of falling for him.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Macon

Karen and my publicist, Timothy, keep texting to see when I’ll be “back to normal.” I am not ready to go back to my normal schedule. I won’t admit it to anyone, but the idea of being formally “out there” with the eyes of the world watching my every move has me breaking out in a cold sweat. Given my profession, this is a problem.

I didn’t lie to Delilah; talking to the mango seller about Arasmus and Dark Castle was enjoyable. It was gratifying to know my work gives others pleasure. But it wasn’t my work that caused those two women to stalk me. I was a thing to them. Sometimes, in the still of the night, when I’m not guarding my thoughts, they’ll creep up on me, those grasping fingers, the flashing light of their cameras. I might have bled out and died before they finally called 911. And I can’t help but think that going out in the public eye will draw more of their kind.

It pisses me off that I care.