Page 112 of Restless Hawke

“There’s something I need to tell you…”

His brow furrows, and he steps back, letting his palms fall away from my face to take the seat beside me. He quickly pulls my hand into his and squeezes it. “Okay?”

God, I don’t want to do this.

If there were any other way,anything I could do to save him from this pain, I would do it. Even if it cost me everything, I would do it without thought in a heartbeat.

“You said no more games.” I glance over at him and watch his shoulders stiffen. “I should have told you this from the beginning, but I didn’t know you then. I shouldn’t have let it get this far?—”

His face pales. “Letwhatget this far?”

A single tear slips from my eye, despite me trying desperately to keep them at bay, and I tug my hand free from his, unable to bear his touch when I’m about to confess my sins. “None of this was supposed to happen.”

His jaw clenches, his body starting to tremble. “None ofwhat?”

I spread out my hands. “This. You.Us. I wasn’t supposed to…”

The words won’t come out.

But they don’t have to for Coen to sense he isn’t going to like what I’m about to say.

A low growl slips from his chest, so different from the ones full of sexual promise he’s offered me over the last twelve hours. “Whatever it is, Allegra, just fucking tell me already.”

Rip off the Band-Aid.

“I wasn’t just in Atlantic City to scope out my potential opponents. I was there for you…specifically.”

He rests his forearms on his knees, leaning forward. “I kind of figured that. None of the other players from Monaco were in Atlantic City for that game.”

I shake my head, swiping away another tear. “No, you don’t understand. I was there for you because Ihadto be.”

Coen swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

A sob threatens to climb up my throat. “I was sent to watch you.”

He remains deathly still—unnaturally so. “By whom?”

I meet his suddenly icy, hard gaze. “By someone powerful enough to make me do it.”

His hands tighten into fists, and he shoves up to his feet. “Fucking Satriano.”

Somehow, hearinghimsay his name instead of having to utter it myself makes it a little easier to breathe.

It shouldn’t, though.

That name is going to be what undoesallof this.

“I’m so sorry… I never meant to?—”

Coen whirls to face me, his entire body locked up tight with barely contained rage, fists at his sides. “What thefuckdoes he have on you?”

It takes a moment for me to process what he’s asking. “What?”

“What. Does. He.Have.On. You?”

That would make me do this…

That is what he’s asking.