7. Maeve
CHAPTER 7
MAEVE
Several minutes pass as I’m catching my breath on the floor. He stares at me the whole time, like I’m a riddle he can solve, and while I resent the intrusion, I don’t have the energy to resist anymore. I’m spent, and I’m the one who started this. Whatever comes from my arrival here this evening is my own doing.
“You can sleep here,” he finally concludes, offering me a hand.
I laugh sharply rather than take it and stare at him like he’s lost his mind. How simple—as if that was the issue we were wrestling over, and everything is solved now that there’s been a physical exchange. How incredibly male.
“What?” he asks.
“With the wrestling match and the locked door, I assumed that was a joke.”
He rolls his eyes at me. “You’re not a prisoner.”
I narrow mine. “Then why did you tackle me to the ground, Diego?”
He smirks. “You’ve always been difficult.”
I glance at the locked door one last time, but it’s not worth the fight right now. The exhaustion is starting to set in, and I have nowhere to go but west. His hand still hangs in front of me, waiting for me to break and take it or stand on my own. I mentally war with myself over which choice is the least humiliating.
There’s no point in worrying about my family or anything like that. They’re all more than safe. I live in one of my father’s buildings, but there’s very little chance Cygnus’s men have found any Sinclairs but me. One night here won’t hurt any more than it has already, and tomorrow, I can figure my way out of this mess. I reach up and take his hand, a wicked glimmer shining in his eyes and reminding me of his erection pressed against me.
“How about I order a pizza? You’re way too skinny.”
His hand is still warm around mine, and I laugh in shock as I pull it free. As a ballerina with an ass, I don’t hear that often.
“Just keep your hands to yourself. There’s no reason for you to touch me.” I’m more jumpy from the way he stared me down before our exchange than I am from the fight, but both have me on edge.
“Sure, Maeve, whatever you say.” His sarcasm is so thick my teeth grind.
When the pizza arrives, I watch like a hawk to see how the lock functions, and while he reveals the control panel, I don’t quite catch the code he enters. Why did Miss Angie have all this security? I want to ask questions, but the more I do, the more he gets to ask of me, and I’m not in the business of handing out any more pieces of Maeve.
I chew the pizza slice, averting my gaze. He’s weaseling his way into my heart fast, and I need to keep my head on straight. His cleaning my cut and bandaging it fucked with my brain chemistry, then the knowledge of what his erection felt like, and now him feeding me? If he’s trying to make my head spin in turned-on confusion, he’s succeeding. No one knows the real me, and it’s been a very long time since they did, maybe since I spent time with his mother. I’m so overwhelmed I can barely breathe, and being his “not prisoner” doesn’t help either.
My safety is a concern, but his amusement slightly reassures me. There isn’t some sick killer energy coming off him, but it’s very much like my displeasure entertains him. Like I’m still his annoying little stepsister, and he didn’t just have his hard cock pressed to my ass. His enjoyment is not contagious, and I stay facing away from him for my own sense of well-being. My back sits rigid, and my movements are mechanical as I eat, but he’s completely relaxed.
A movie of his choosing plays, and I try to ignore the fact it’s something that he and I watched at a movie theater together once. That I secretly hoped he might kiss me there where our parents couldn’t see. But of course that never happened. I was the problem, after all, not Diego. I doubt he even remembers that day. It’s certainly not why he chose this movie.
While his eyes follow the action on the screen, I can’t stop thinking about my real-life action and how close my enemies came to getting their hands on me. The entire day was a mess, a sea of adrenaline with no end. That hasn’t changed now; I’m not that tired yet. If there’s an advanced lock system, that bodes well for me. I don’t know why this house would be so protected, but I’m grateful at the moment.
“I’m assuming from that lock there’s a decent security system?” I ask. What could have happened to Miss Angie that he needed to install it?
“Of course. Thinking of making a run for it?” He shoots me a cocky smile, his brow rising like he would be really interested to see the attempt.
“Of course not.” Yes, but that’s not why I’m asking.
“You’re an abominable liar.” He returns to eating his pizza, his attention darting between me and the TV, like he only half cares.
“Says the man who knows exactly nothing about me.” A laugh track fills the room as an iconic scene plays.
“They don’t make them like this anymore.” He ignores me and sets my teeth on edge.
“I’ve changed a lot since we knew each other,” I repeat.
“I know absolutely everything I need to know about you, Maeve. The rest just isn’t that exciting to me.”
My annoyed huff turns up the side of his mouth. Maybe his presence makes me feel like a younger version of myself because I want to argue when sliding a mask into place makes much more sense. But that’s not what it was like with Diego. Our relationship was always so… real. He was the realest person I’d ever met wrapped up in my pretentious world of private school and ballet.
“Not anymore.”
“Maybe not yesterday. Today, I know your name is Maeve Sinclair, and even with all that money, you can’t go home tonight.” The words feel so mean, but he says them like a joke, and he slides me the coyest smile.
I keep quiet after that, still not comfortable with him or how his presence affects me. The silence stretches between us, and rather than polite conversation and normal things like questions and trying to catch up, I replay the scene of us wrestling in front of the door.
Am I afraid of Diego?
I look at him for the first time, checking out his devilishly gorgeous profile. I never have before today, but this is also the first time he’s given me a reason to be.
He looks over at me, and we lock eyes. The silence continues, and he pulls my thoughts out of my head like only he can.
“Don’t be weird about what happened before. I’m not being weird. I’m trying to help you.” His honest and assured tone causes me to relax just a fraction.
“I’m just weird, Diego.” If weird is code for melting down and spiraling. “I can’t help it when someone wrestles me to the ground and locks me in their house.”
I should put the nice girl Maeve mask back on, but Diego makes it so difficult—so heavy. Just for tonight, I’d like to sit here and not put on a fake smile.
“That was for your protection. This is a bad neighborhood, and you’re clearly in trouble. A taser and a knife…” He scoffs. “As if that would stop anyone dead set on harming you.”
“It doesn’t look so bad anymore,” I answer, thinking about my memories of the run-down neighborhood, and how I looked down on it when I first saw it as a child. So many things have changed, and I’m not too big to admit I’ve lived a very privileged life.
“Looks can be deceiving.”
And for reasons I can’t explain, I blush from my neck to my hairline. He pulls the last slice from the box and starts eating it, his slow movements taunting me after the speed with which he ate his first four.
“You get the couch,” he says once he polishes it off, and much to my gratitude, he says nothing about the three slices I ate—something that would have been impossible for my father.
“Where are you sleeping?” I ask him, sure there aren’t many options in this house right now.
He lifts one shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll make do for one night.” Politeness dictates I argue and tell him I don’t want to put him out, but I find myself nodding instead. My muscles ache worse than ballet days, and my exhaustion is becoming a defining personality trait.
Diego cleans up, taking out paper plates and napkins to the trash and making sure everything is back in place. He opens a box marked bedding and hands me a small pillow and blanket. I go to take them from him, and rather than passing them to me, he uses them as an opportunity to grab my hands. With us face-to-face and me unable to escape him again, he stares deep into my eyes, trying to make some connection, but a wall exists between us made purely of my own denial.
“I’m helping you,” he promises. “My mother loved you, even if you haven’t been by in the last eight years, and she would want me to help you.”
For a moment or two, I judge his intentions rather than answering, and finally, I nod once. My throat thickens with unshed tears.
“Good night, Maeve,” he says, dipping his chin and staring for a long moment before leaving me alone in the living room.
Once he’s gone, I breathe hard. My hand grips my chest, trying to understand the flurry of emotion and fear racing through me. The very first thing I do is look at the control panel on the lock. It beeps when I open the latch.
“Maeve.” His voice calls from somewhere deep in the house. “Go to bed.”
“Fuck.”
My escape plans resolutely die.
Officially giving up, I turn to the bag that holds a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and I remove my leotard and pale pink tights. A stray tear falls as I fold them and slip them back into the bag. The Ivanov Ballet Company logo stares up at me before I close the bag.
My heart twists at the realization I can’t ever be an Ivanov ballerina again. Returning to the theater will put not only myself at risk, but every single dancer and employee. It hurts to know that once they fill my role—the best one I’ve ever had—I will be forgotten.
Lyla is the only real friend I’ve had in a long time, and she deserves to be safe, to have a clean break from me.
A faint light shines from outside, maybe a streetlamp a little ways down. It gives just enough of a glow to act as a night-light. I lie down, positioning myself to watch the front door. I don’t have any weapons anymore, and it’s not like I can do anything, but that doesn’t interfere with my vigilance.
White knuckles clutch the blanket to my chest. My jaw locks in place, and every inch of my body is wired with tension. No amount of meditation will truly relax me, so instead of fighting my fear, I give in to it and stare at the door until my heavy and aching eyes close.