He’s beautiful in his raw and utterly masculine simplicity. Clean lines, strong bone structure, the dark blond of his hair spiking up in wild disarray. Faint laugh lines grace the corners of his expressive dusky-blue eyes. Even when he’s serious, it’s as if his natural inclination is toward happiness and any other emotion is just temporary.

“That’s why I wanted you to come out with me,” he says. “I don’t want us to be stuck in the past. We’re not those people anymore. We’re…new.”

“New, huh?”

He nudges me with his shoulder. “New and improved.”

“Goof.”

Grinning, he gives me a swift, affectionate kiss on the cheek. “You need goofy in your life.”

“Because I’m so serious?” I say it lightly. He’s not telling me anything I haven’t heard before or thought of myself.

“You can be, and someone has to brave that death glare of yours to remind you how fun it is to let go.”

“I suppose you’re the brave someone in this scenario?”

“Of course. Sir Ryland, the noble sex knight. Able to tame the savage Brenna beast one orgasm at a time.”

“That is painfully bad.”

His eyes twinkle with good cheer. “And yet you’re laughing.”

“Yeah, at you.”

“Good enough. Face it, Bren. You need me.”

It hits too close to a tender spot I’ve been trying to ignore.

Rye, being observant as hell when it comes to me, notices. His happy expression slips away. I’ve made it awkward again, and I don’t know how to fix it. A stupid joke would be obvious, and frankly, insulting to Rye’s intelligence. But what can I say? You’re coming to mean too much to me, and I’m not sure I can take that.

Rye’s deep voice breaks the silence. “Can I ask you something?”

I stop beside a group of knights on horseback with lances up and at the ready. “That question never bodes well.”

“Probably not.” He rubs the back of his neck before turning the full force of his attention on me. “Back when we were having tea with Killian, I said I’d go to his dad’s birthday party, and you flinched.”

I flinch again, sliding my gaze away. “Did I?”

He’s closer now. I can feel him even though he’s two feet away. “Bren, come on. It’s me you’re talking to. You flinched and made a face, the one that says you have to deal with an uncomfortable situation but will try your best not to let it get to you.”

It’s irksome that he reads me so easily. Worse, I know him well enough to realize he’s going to keep at the question until I answer. Hot, itchy panic crawls up my chest.

“Rye. Can we not do this? Let’s just go back to having a good time.”

“I don’t want to pressure you, but it’s been bugging me.” He stands in front of me, so I have nowhere to run. “Do you not want me to go? Is that it?”

Damn it. I don’t want to do this. “Rye…”

He takes my hand. His has gone clammy, and it hits me how hard it is for him to ask. He thinks I don’t want him around. I don’t, not at my aunt and uncle’s house. But not for the reasons he probably assumes.

“Just tell me,” he says with that same soft but insistent tone. “If you think I can’t be discreet—”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what? We get along well now. What can it possibly—”

“I saw you,” I burst out, my voice ringing in the gallery.

Rye’s head jerks at the sound, but his eyes narrow. “Saw me? When? Where?”

Glancing around at the few people in the room, I tug Rye to a smaller alcove. No one appears to have recognized him as a member of Kill John, but I have no desire for our conversation to end up on some social media account.

My heart tries to beat its way up my throat. I swallow hard and face him. “I didn’t want to do this. It’s history, but you won’t let it go, will you?”

His chin kicks up with a stubborn stare. “If whatever the hell is bugging you was actually history, you wouldn’t be this upset. And, yeah, I’m not letting it go. Not now, at any rate. What the hell are you talking about, Bren? What did you see me do?”

Letting out a harsh breath, I lick my lips. “With my aunt.”

His expression goes blank. “Isabella?”

“Aunt Isabella. Otherwise known to the public simply as Isabella, one of the most beautiful and successful models in the world.” As if he doesn’t know this.

Cuban American with tanned legs for miles, Isabella was the star of a major lingerie campaign for most of my childhood. One of my first memories of her is when she strode down the catwalk wearing the now-famous bikini made entirely of diamonds and rubies.

Killian had a hell of a time dealing with his schoolmates panting over his mom. As for me, most of my friends didn’t know she was my aunt, but if they found out, they wanted to meet her, be her. I’d wanted to be her too, for a time. To this day, she’s idolized, adored, pursued.

“It was your twenty-first birthday party,” I continue woodenly. “Isabella was in town and popped in to join the party…”

Something clears in his eyes. His lips part, but he doesn’t utter a sound. He doesn’t have to. I see the guilt starting to stir. The horror of being caught.

A wave of old anger rises within me. “I saw you, Rye. Kissing my aunt. My fucking aunt! Killian’s mom—”

He cuts me off with a sharp sound, something close to pain. “Bren—”

“You had your tongue down her throat.”

Rye makes another sound, like it’s ripped from deep within him, and takes hold of my arm. His grip doesn’t hurt but holds me still. I’d been backing away without knowing it. I don’t move, don’t try to break free. I want to face him now.

“No,” he says. “No fucking way are you walking out thinking that’s what happened.”

A high, humorless laugh breaks from my lips. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

He steps into my space, his voice low and urgent. “It’s your interpretation of what you saw that’s the problem, Bren.” He takes a quick, hard breath. “I was drunk off my ass—”

“That’s no excuse.”

“Would you just listen?” he hisses.

My mouth snaps shut, and I raise a brow, silently prompting him to continue. He grits his teeth then speaks again.

“I was drunk off my ass, and Isabella walked in. We chitchatted in that sloppy, stupid way only the exceptionally drunk can manage. Suddenly she was sitting closer. Too close. It freaked me out, because, yes, she’s an extremely beautiful woman, and it was becoming too clear that she was hitting on me.”

“What?” It comes out high and shocked. Because I am. Shocked. Shaken.

There’s something desperate about Rye’s expression. “She was, Bren. She knew it. I knew it. And, trust me, I was painfully aware that she was Killian’s mom. Frankly, it scared the hell out of me. I moved to go, and…” He closes his eyes with a wince. “Fuck, she kissed me. I was so fucking shocked—”

Blood drains from my head so quickly, my skin prickles. “Are you telling me that Isabella jumped you?”