12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
I’ve Got You
Luca
I’ve never been backstage before.
Even though my primary responsibility is protecting Simone, watching the frantic activity before a performance is more interesting than I expected.
Bass vibrates through the floor beneath my boots, rattling the metal legs of the folding chairs beside me. Crew members dressed in black move through the narrow corridors with radios and headsets, calling cues, adjusting cables, and carrying equipment from one room to another.
It looks chaotic.
It isn’t.
Every person has an assignment. Every movement serves a purpose.
Mirrors surrounded by bright bulbs line the green room. Half-empty water bottles, energy drinks, makeup brushes, and crumpled lyric sheets cover the counters.
Several couches face a large monitor displaying the invited crowd entering the private theater.
One hundred and twelve people made the final guest list.
Each one passed through metal detectors, bag inspections, and identity verification before being allowed inside. The security team swept the venue twice this morning and again before the doors opened.
Guards are stationed at each entrance, backstage access point, and emergency exit. Two additional officers watch the upper gallery and lighting platforms.
On paper, we’ve covered everything.
After what happened at the gala, paper doesn’t reassure me.
Simone hasn’t spoken to me in six days.
Not one direct word.
Not one sarcastic insult.
Not even an irritated breath in my direction.
Since the night we kissed, she has perfected the art of pretending I don’t exist.
I should be relieved.
Distance creates control.
Silence eliminates opportunities to make another mistake.
But whenever she walks past me without acknowledgment, it feels less like distance and more like punishment.
I don’t know which sin I’m paying for.
Kissing her?
Touching her?
Or pretending afterward that it meant nothing?
At least when she openly despised me, she spoke to me.
She argued.
She provoked.
Now I barely exist, and the realization has worked its way beneath my skin.
I told her we had been caught up in the moment.
I gave her every reason to believe the kiss was meaningless.
But I was the one who lost control.
I crossed the street.
I touched her first.
I kissed her like a starving man who had finally been offered food.
It should never have happened.
The consequences should have stopped me.
Bran.
Francis.
My assignment.
The promise I made to protect her.
I abandoned all of it the moment she pulled me toward her.
Now the tension between us is worse.
No matter how many times I’ve punished myself during the past six days, there’s still a small, relentless part of me that doesn’t regret what happened.
I’ve locked that part behind every barrier I possess.
It keeps breathing anyway.
Simone is my responsibility.
Nothing more.
She will remain nothing more until Francis ends this assignment and I can put enough distance between us to think clearly again.
I check my watch.
Eight minutes until she’s called to the stage.
At Simone’s request, everyone has cleared the green room. Janie, her vocal coach, left with the makeup artists and assistants, each of them offering me a curious glance on the way out.
I remain near the exterior door.
Close enough to respond.
Far enough to give her the privacy she demanded.
Glass shatters inside.
I have the door open before the final fragments hit the floor.
One hand reaches beneath my jacket toward my weapon as I enter and scan the room.
No intruder.
No immediate threat.
Only a broken tequila bottle and clear liquid spreading across the carpet.
Simone stands in the middle of it, holding a jagged piece of glass loosely in one hand.
“Put that down.”
My voice is sharper than intended.
Her gaze lifts toward me.
She looks like a threat all by herself.
A black bodysuit covered in dark crystals fits her like a second skin. The high neckline covers her throat, but the back plunges low enough to expose the entire length of her spine.
Glossy thigh-high boots encase her legs.
Her eyes are dark and winged. Her lips are painted a deep red, and shimmer sharpens the rise of her cheekbones.
My heart strikes my ribs.
No.
Absolutely not.
Simone tosses the glass into the trash.
“I said I wanted to be alone.”
I step inside and let the door close behind me.
“Show me your hand.”
“I didn’t cut myself.”
“Show me.”
She holds it up with an irritated flourish.
There’s no blood.
No visible injury.
Only a slight tremor in her fingers.
“You satisfied?”
“For the moment.”
Her mouth twists.
“You’re still lurking. Cute.”
I ignore the remark and look at the shattered bottle.
“What happened?”
“It slipped.”
She takes an unopened bottle from the counter and pours a small measure into a clean shot glass.
A little tequila spills over the rim.
She’s nervous.
“Pre-show ritual,” she says without looking at me.
She lifts the glass and drinks.
“Do you always need alcohol before performing?”
“I don’t need it.”
She sets the glass down.
“I usually have one shot. It settles my nerves.”
“Are you usually this nervous?”
“No.”
Her answer is immediate.
Then she releases a quiet, humorless laugh.
“And I hate that question.”
“What question?”
Are you okay?
I don’t have to say it aloud.
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror.
“I’d rather you didn’t pretend to care.”
“I’m not pretending.”
She turns.
For the first time in six days, she looks directly at me.
Her gaze travels slowly over my body as though she’s memorizing the details.
Something shifts in the room.
The air becomes charged.
Sharp.
Alive.
I look away before she sees how quickly my body reacts to her attention.
Her boots cross the carpet.
She stops inches in front of me.
Strawberries and tequila fill the space between us.
“You kissed me,” she says quietly.
My eyes return to her face.
“I thought we agreed to leave that alone.”
“We didn’t agree to anything.”
She raises one hand and traces a slow line down the center of my chest.
Every muscle in my body tightens.
“You kissed me,” she repeats, “and now you can barely look at me.”
“You had a drink.”
“One shot.”
Her finger moves lower.
“You can’t use alcohol as your excuse tonight.”
She reaches my stomach.
I catch her wrist before her hand can descend any farther.
Her pulse jumps beneath my fingers.
“Careful.”
The warning comes out as a growl.
For several seconds, neither of us moves.
We breathe the same air.
Her pulse races beneath my thumb while mine pounds against my ribs.
This is happening again.
And I need to stop it.
Before I can force myself to release her, Simone pulls her hand free.
She walks backward and lowers herself onto the couch, folding one leg beneath her.
Then she tilts her head and studies me.
“You look tense.”
She has less than five minutes before stage management calls her.
And she has apparently chosen to spend them tormenting me.
I remain where I am.
Her outfit clings to the curves of her breasts, waist, and hips. One strand of hair falls across her face, and she looks up at me from beneath it with calculated innocence.
There is nothing innocent about her.
She knows exactly what she’s doing.
I don’t understand the game.
Maybe this is revenge.
Maybe she wants to prove that she can make me lose control whenever she chooses.
Maybe she’s trying to punish me for touching her and then retreating.
Whatever the reason, it’s working.
Her lips part.
All I can think about is kissing them six nights ago.
The way she tasted.
The sounds she made.
The feel of her body moving against mine.
She’s wicked.
Wicked for sitting there so calmly while my restraint fractures one piece at a time.
“Your job is to protect and serve me, isn’t it?” she asks.
“That isn’t how personal protection works.”
“But you follow orders.”
“When they come from the person who employs me.”
“I’m a Rochefort.”
“Unfortunately.”
One side of her mouth lifts.
“So technically, I can tell you what to do.”
A rough sound escapes my throat.
“What do you want?”
She doesn’t smile.
Doesn’t blink.
Her eyes remain fixed on mine.
“Come here.”
I stay where I am.
Her voice drops.
“Kneel.”
Every muscle in my body locks.
My hands curl into fists.
Heat spreads through my chest, stomach, and spine, burning away my ability to think.
Every professional instinct tells me to step back.
To remind her that she’s about to perform.
To put an end to whatever power game she’s playing.
Simone is accustomed to getting what she wants.
She’s testing me.
Maybe she expects me to refuse so she can prove I’ll reject her every time she reaches for me.
I should.
Professionally, obeying this particular command is indefensible.
Personally, I’m already moving.
I cross the room.
Then I lower myself to my knees between hers.
My fists rest against my thighs.
My heart pounds hard enough to hurt.
Surprise flickers in her eyes.
She didn’t expect me to do it.
That knowledge should restore some of my control.
It doesn’t.
Simone leans forward and touches my jaw.
Her fingers spread over my skin.
Her thumb traces my bottom lip as though committing its shape to memory.
I don’t submit to anyone.
But I remain still beneath her hand.
My lips part instinctively when her thumb passes over them.
Her pupils widen.
Her chest rises and falls more quickly.
She pulls gently at my lower lip before sliding her thumb down to my chin.
Then she tilts my face upward.
“You follow orders very well when you want to,” she whispers.
My eyes close for half a second.
When I open them, I meet her heavy-lidded stare.
“Does your boyfriend know?”
My voice is low and rough.
Her fingers stop.
“Does Adrien know I made you come without taking off your clothes?”
Simone freezes.
Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull away.
“Does he know you think about me when you’re alone?”
The pressure between us tightens.
“We both know you do.”
Before she can answer, someone calls from the corridor.
“Sim! Two minutes!”
Neither of us looks away.
Her breathing grows heavier. Her lips part, but no words emerge.
Slowly, her hand falls from my face.
Her fingertips trail along my jaw, leaving a path of heat behind.
Then she stands.