Page 58 of The Pawn

It’s the one I keep—kept—by my bedside. My heart races and my eyes fill up to see it. It’s mom and me the year she died.

No. She didn’t just die.

She was brutally murdered.

I make myself say it.

This photograph is the last I have of her. It was taken the year she wasbrutally murderedby my father even if it wasn’t his hand to strike the final blow.

Malek wanted so badly for me to admit that. Well, there it is. My father was a butcher.

I take the photo out and study it. I touch my mom’s face. If she’d never met Malek, if she’d never met my father, what kind of life would she have had? Would she have fallen in love with the Maestro? Would she have been happy?

The thoughts just make me sad, though, and anyway, it doesn’t matter. Those things didn’t happen. The bad things did.

I set the photo down with the intention of taking it with me when I’m finished when I see the velvet pouch in the drawer.

My heartbeat picks up. I reach in, touch it gingerly. It’s the ring. It must be.

“Looking for something?”

I gasp, my gaze shooting to the door, to Cassianstanding just inside it. How did I not hear him? I was so caught up in the memories of my mother.

“I—”

The door clicks shut, and Cassian is across the room in a heartbeat. His mouth is set in a tight line, his eyes narrowed.

He takes the pouch from me, pockets it and closes the drawer.

“What are you doing, Allegra?”

I finally get my breath back. “Why do you have this?” I ask, holding up the photograph.

“I took it from your room. The frame was broken, and I intended on getting you a new one. I thought you’d want it.”

“Why was it in your desk drawer if you thought I’d want it?”

“Because I’m trying to be careful with you right now.”

“You don’t have to be careful with me. I’m not made of glass.”

“Oh, I know that. You’re made of much stronger stuff.”

He slips off his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of the chair.

Stubble dusts his jawline, and shadows darken the skin beneath his eyes. He’s been going to bed with me, but when I wake in the mornings, he’s long gone, and I wonder how much sleep he’s getting.

I clear my throat and gesture to the pocket where he slipped the pouch. “Is my mother’s ring in there?”

He begins to roll his sleeves up. I watch his big hands as he folds each shirt sleeve carefully to reveal powerful forearms dusted with dark hair. He is beautiful, Cassian Trevino, and my stomach flutters to see the physicalmanifestation of his strength, his power, every single time.

I clear my throat, tell myself to get it together because being turned on anytime I see his freaking forearms is just weird.

When I meet his gaze, I find him studying me, one corner of his mouth curved upward like he’s amused.

“Is it?” I ask again.

“No.”