Stepbrother Thief(11)

His gaze is sharp and penetrating, and it's too damn early for me to deal with that, so I drag my eyes away and focus on the skull tattoo that decorates his bicep, the raven standing atop it so realistic that I feel as if I could brush my fingers over its feathers. Thieves of the animal world. They see something shiny, they pick it up. And if it's a challenge to get? Even better. Gill told me that once, his words dancing in my skull like they're being said even now.

“We need to move hotels today,” he tells me, and I nod. I don't ask why or demand an explanation—Gill won't tell me any of that unless he wants to. I don't really care either way, so long as we're not going to get arrested or murdered by some rival jewelry thieves or something.

I am going to have a beautiful day today, I tell myself, letting my eyes trail down my stepbrother's arm, over the black and gray tattoos that wrap his muscles. Might as well start off with a good heaping of positive self-talk. Otherwise, I won't make it past breakfast with this man. I am going to learn something new today, something useful. I'm going to do this because I'm a smart person and I make good choices.

“You're still doing that?” Gill asks, and I narrow my eyes at him, adjusting my legs and rustling the white comforter on the bed. He looks so ridiculous stuck in this hotel room with its navy blue walls and tasteful but boring accent pieces. Gill is … he's too big to be contained, too explosive, too unpredictable. He's a lion that can't be kept in a cage. I want him to go away, want this to be over with. Can't start a new life with cobwebs clinging to my face. That's what Gill is—cobwebs complete with spider. Complete with poisonous spider.

“Doing what?” I ask, shoving back the covers and standing up. I run my fingers through my hair and bump into a snarl. A second later, there's a comb landing on the mattress next to me. It's just a small, cheap plastic thing, but … I look back at Gilleon.

“Picked it up at the front desk. Thought you might need it.”

“Thanks?” I say. It's almost a question.

“You're still doing the self-talk thing?” he asks, turning the conversation back to its original course. “Has it worked well for you?”

“I don't know,” I tell him, rising to my feet and moving into the bathroom. I flick on the lights and stare at myself in the mirror, at my eyes, the color of a good café au lait. Coffee. Oh God, coffee. I need a cup and I need it now. I glance over at Gill. “You tell me. Here I am.” I lift my arms out to either side and the robe slips down my bare shoulder.

Gill's breath catches, but he composes himself so quickly that by the time I blink, it's like nothing at all has happened. He's sitting there staring at me with such a blank expression in those bright blue eyes of his that I wonder if I might've imagined his reaction in the first place. Huh. I fix my robe and turn back to the mirror to brush my hair.

“Do you think Aveline has any eyeliner that I could borrow?” I ask, tossing the question out there as casually as I can. Of course, nothing gets past Gill, but I might as well make a show of it. Without answering, he rises to his feet and moves around the bed, coming to stand a scant few inches from the bathroom door.

Trapped.

I try not to think of it like that, but I can't help it. I don't know how he feels, but to me, being around Gill is still surreal, like standing on a platform that isn't quite straight. The world tilts and shifts around me while I struggle to right myself, but every correction I make feels like an overcorrection. It's infuriating.

“I can ask her, if you want,” he says, checking his watch. “We have a few minutes to spare if you want to do your makeup.” I glance over at Gill and find him smiling at me again, always with that damn smiling. When he was a teenager, it was charming, a light to blot out some of the darkness that I always knew was crouching deep down inside of his soul. Now … it's a little scary. “Oh,” he says, like he's just remembered something. I know that's not true though—Gill can't remember anything because he never, ever forgets. “Aveline sent me a very bizarre series of texts this morning, something about how getting out of a clean shower into dirty panties was the worst feeling in the world. Here.” My blood goes hot and the words I was going to say sear into my throat like burns as Gill digs into his front pocket and pulls out a pair of white lacy panties, complete with tags, tossing them at me without changing a single thing about his facial expression. “I figured you still wear the same size, so I hope they fit alright.”

I catch the underwear in one hand, fingers curling around the scrap of white fabric.

I don't know how long Gill plans on sticking around, but I hope it isn't long.