Savage Lover (Brutal Birthright, #3)

by Sophie Lark

A robbery succeeds or fails in the planning stage.

I think about those huge dark eyes that seem to speak directly to me even when she’s not saying a word. I never thought she was pretty before. Now I wonder how I could have been so blind.

Those expressive eyes, so dark and yet so brilliant. Sometimes looking at me with fury or disdain. Sometimes amused, even though she doesn’t want to be. And sometimes, sometimes letting slip something more . . . Sadness. Fear. Worry. Or longing . . . You have to look close to see any of those things.

I’ve been a total ass to her. Nothing personal—I was just being myself. But I’m not a good guy. Not boyfriend material. I’ve always known that. I’m selfish. Impulsive. Easily offended. Chasing after whatever I want and then hating it as soon as I get it. I don’t think people can change. And I don’t know how to be any other way. And yet . . . For once in my life, I wish I were different.

When I laid next to Camille and kissed her, I actually felt happy for a second. I felt connected to her. I felt like she opened up her shell just the tiniest bit, and so did I, without worrying that the other person was going to stab us in our most vulnerable place. Then it ended, and I don’t know how to get back there, because I don’t know how it happened in the first place.

It’s not that I want things to go back. But I wish you could know when a moment will change your life forever. I wish I would have enjoyed that dinner a little longer and not been in such a hurry to get up from the table.

Then there’s the other person I’m both hoping and dreading seeing . . . Nero. Just thinking about him makes my heart race. I want to see him again. I just do. It’s stupid, and I hate admitting it, but I can’t help the way I feel.

I don’t think Mason’s ever gonna grow up and be somebody I can count on.” “He cares about you, though,” I say. “I know,” Patricia says. “But I keep trying to change him. And you know that never works in the end.”

sometimes you have to suffer to look sexy,”

She turns me around to face the mirror. It’s funny, because I don’t look so different—it’s still me. Just a version of me that glows like a fucking angel.

I don’t give a shit that my mom used to strip, or whatever else she got into. That’s her choice. What I fucking despise is how everyone tries to use it as a weapon against me—to shame me and degrade me.

I’m not angry at her for abandoning me. She was sixteen years old—way younger than I am now. Younger than Vic, even. Just a kid.

Why do men enjoy hurting women? Why does he feel good making me feel low?

“I was jealous of you . . .” I say to her. “You had money and friends. But your dad sucks. And I’ve got a great dad . . . but he’s really sick. I guess I just realized everybody has something tormenting them . . .”

I’m having so much fun. I don’t think I’ve ever actually had fun at a party before. It’s always been shades of awkwardness. Now I couldn’t feel awkward if I tried. I don’t care whatsoever about what happens. I’m just peaceful and interested in everything.

But here’s the thing—the Molly is not manufacturing emotions where none existed before. Instead, it’s like a key, turning the locks on every door inside of my brain. It’s flinging those doors wide open, letting everything I’d shut away come pouring out all at once.

I even tell him about my mom. How I miss her so badly. And then I hate myself for missing her, because I know I shouldn’t care when she obviously doesn’t give a fuck about me. And how I feel guilty for having that hole in my heart, when my dad has always tried to make our family complete, with or without her.

“Camille,” he says. “I want you. But not . . . not like I usually do. Not to just fuck and get off.”

For the first time, I actually feel a connection to a woman. I’m terrified that I’m going to fuck it up by acting like I always do. Terrified that I’ll destroy this fragile thing between us, like I destroy everything else.

I hated myself for that. Then hating me turned into hating everything and everyone.

But I don’t hate Camille. I respected her when she was tough and wouldn’t give in to anyone. And now I feel confused and almost humbled that after all this time when she finally opened up to somebody . . . it was me. I don’t deserve it. I’m not kind. I’m not understanding. But . . . I want to deserve it. I want to be a safe haven for her. Even if I don’t exactly know how to do that.

“I don’t want you to kill anyone for me,” she says. “I’m serious, Nero. I don’t want anyone to get hurt because of me.” I look her in the eyes. “Then how can we be together?” I ask her. “I can change some things about myself. But not that.”

“People only know two kinds of careers here. Crime, or catching criminals. You choose a team,

“Nobody likes digging up old garbage.” No, they don’t. But I never really gave a fuck what people like.

“You should really pay those off,” the receptionist tells me, as my MasterCard finally allows the charge. “Carrying a balance is bad for your credit score.” “It’s this fun game between me and the bank,” I tell her. “I like to keep them guessing.”

I desperately want to blink, but I won’t let myself drop his stare for a second. Men like this feed off of fear.

I can’t stand having people creaking around over my head. I like to be as high up as possible, someplace with a view.

Camille shoots me a pained look, and I immediately regret my stupid comment. Why can I never think of the right thing to say to her? I always knew how to get what I wanted from women before. It was easy to manipulate them. But I don’t want to manipulate Camille. I want us to be in that space we sometimes stumble into by accident, where we understand each other. Where everything is clear between us. I can never seem to get there intentionally. The harder I try, the more I fuck it up.

“Does that bother you?” she asks. “No,” I say. “Why would it?” I don’t let myself actually think about the question before answering.

“I know you don’t like her,” Camille says, getting very still. “But you were jealous anyway.”

“I don’t ever want you to be jealous,” I tell her. “There’s nobody else, Camille. Nobody who ever made me feel like this.”

I’m sick to death of getting bits and pieces of Camille, never all of her at once.

I’ve never experienced anything like this. I’m used to giving in to wild emotion. Lust, violence, rage . . . this tops them all, and it’s not even close.

We’re trying to tear each other apart. But not out of hatred. Out of a desire to find that raw, vulnerable center again.

Camille’s got more walls around her than a medieval castle. And I’m equally determined to keep people out—with a barrier of anger, carelessness, cruelty. Yet we scaled each other’s walls. Because we recognized in each other what we know about ourselves. That we’re both hurting. Both alone. Both wanting someone who could understand.

I want Camille like I’ve never wanted anything in my life. I want her to love me. She’s the only one who knows me, so she’s the only one who can. And I want to love her. I’m fucking awful at it—I’ve never had any practice. But I want to take all that passion and jealousy and obsession inside of me, and I want to give it all to h...

I can feel her heart beating on one side of her chest, and mine on the other. They’re just a couple of inches apart, separated by flesh and nothing else.

God, I can’t even look at her. Those big, dark eyes can make me do anything.

I’m dragging this out, because I don’t want to say yes. Yet I already know I can’t refuse her.

I never imagined I could feel something like this. This kind of obsession with someone. When I’m not with Nero, I’m thinking about him. And when I am with him, I can’t tear my eyes away from him.

It’s one thing to be comforted by somebody who’s nice to everyone. It’s an entirely different thing to get care from the last person in the world you’d expect to be nurturing.

Nero frowns. His face only looks more beautiful when he’s angry, but it’s also terrifying. Like an avenging angel.

You’ve got to be ruthless, and dirty. Or you don’t have a hope of winning.”

Planning a job is like building a Rube Goldberg machine. One where you only get a single chance to move the ball from point A to point B. You set up all your pulleys and ramps, your levers and wheels. And then finally, when you’re certain that every part of the machine is perfect, down to the tiniest angle, then you set your ball rolling. If it makes it all the way to the end, you get away with the money. If it falls short, you and all your friends are spending the rest of your life in prison. As a best-case scenario. I never really focused on the consequences before. Having Camille involved changes that. I can’t let her down. I just can’t.

I know what it’s like to have one night change your life. To have a demon crawl inside of you and take up residence.

the thought of somebody talking shit on Camille makes me want to track down every single kid we went to high school with and wring their fucking necks.

“Is it serious?” Seb asks. I want to say yes. But I’m not sure I can answer for Camille. “To me it is,” I tell him.

if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my time with Camille, it’s that you can’t say anything to fix a situation like this. And you don’t have to try. You just have to be there for the other person.

“You’re not cops. Who the fuck are you, anyway?” “I’m the guy who’s not gonna kill you tonight,” I tell him. “You’re welcome.”

I have our plan in place. I know what I’m supposed to do. Yet I can’t help focusing on the thousand ways it could all go wrong. If I forget a single part of it. If I make just one mistake . . . No. That can’t happen.