Page 19 of The Crowned Garza

A deep crease forms between his brows as he gazes down at me with a strange expression, and I resist the urge to reach up and smooth it out with the tips of my fingers.

Keeping my word, I step around him, walk out of the building, and go back to the car.

~

Back inside the car, I flatten my palm over my anxious heart. It’s calmed down a little, but its priorities are severely out of whack, and its morality is in the pits.

In the butcher shop, it didn’t jolt and hammer in fright for the right reasons; not because a man was murdered and another was choking on his last breath. No, it hammered at the thought ofGuybeing hurt—or dead—in that building.

Granted, lifeless bodies stopped affecting me a long time ago. Having four morally gray brothers and a whole other bloodline of entirely dark, blood-thirsty relatives, I’ve accidentally walked in ona lotof gruesome things throughout my entire childhood. At this point, if it’s not the body of someone I know or care about, I get out, get gone, and go on about life, the scene never thought of again.

What terrifies me is when the people I care about get hurt or are in danger. The conundrum here is, when—and how—didGuysneak onto the list of people I care about? I detest and distrust the man, so why did my blood damn near turn to ice in my veins when I thought I would find him with his throat slashed in there? Why did the warmth of relief melt away all that terror once I heard his voice? Why did seeing him unharmed make me want to throw my arms around him and thank him for being alive?

Is it because I know my brothers care about him? I mean, heisthe CTO of Red Cage. He’s relied on for a lot. “Mad genius” and “omniscient” and “indispensable” are words they’ve often used to describe him. Maybe that’s why I was scared? Ontheirbehalf, not becauseIcare?

The car door opens, startling me from my thoughts.

Guy folds in, drops the handbrake, shifts into gear, and speeds off.

We drive in silence, but it’s not tense. I feel calmer with each passing minute the farther away we get from that place. He’s here, in the car with me, and I can smell him, feel his presence, hear him breathe. He’s not hurt.

Because he did the hurting…?

Thinking back to the scene, to the cross carved on the dead man’s forehead… Preston Matthews also had a cross carved on his forehead. That’s not a coincidence.

“Question…”

“I knew the silence was too good to be true,” he mutters.

“How’re you able to do that?” I ask. “Slash someone’s throat without getting even a smatter of blood on your pristine white shirt?”

Two whole minutes pass. Whatever he says next will be the fulfillment of Operation Mask Off.

But why would he admit to guilt? To being a fraud? He would have to be an arrogant, unrepentant psychopa—

“Skill,” he answers.

There it is.

The truth.

The man behind the mask. Case closed. Operation successful.

Man, it feels good to be right.

“Well, that’s some impressive skill.” I kick my feet up on the dash again, feeling victorious. “Must’ve taken a lot of throats to hone such a skill.”

He expels a loaded but indecipherable sigh. “You need to stop calling me,regalità.”

“Why? To avoid any more risky happenstances of me seeing who you really are?”

His response is a low, rumbling throat growl. The beast beneath his skin.

“Okay, let’s make a deal,” I suggest. “You answer five questionstruthfullyto ease my curiosity, and I won’t call you again unless I’m stranded for real and my brothers aren’t available.”

He gives me nothing, but I accept his silence as consent.

“Did your parents really name you ‘Guy,’ or is that a nickname?”