Page 92 of Heart of Thieves

“What do you want from me?” I whisper, and it comes out quavering.

“What don’t I want from you?”

Those words peel me open, exposing every vulnerable part of me.

It’s not fair that he can stand there, so beautiful and dangerous and unfeeling while I’m over here coming apart.

My eyes catch on something just behind him. “What is that . . . ?” I tug him forward until his scar illuminates the barest outline of what appears to be an aerial hoop tipped against the wall. He digs in his pocket, extracting a cigar lighter and stooping to reignite the flame in my lantern.

“They must have done a circus show here at some point,” he says, running his fingers along the spanset still attached to the top.

The memory of him twisting among silks back during the tournament—the first time I glimpsed true feeling on his face without glamour or deceit—filters through my mind, sparking an idea. Every time I’ve caught a glimpse of the true Nic inside, especially with that last instance up by the telescope at the library, it was sparked by something that forced his feelings to the surface.

What if I could incite something like that on purpose?

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

LOLA

“You’ve improved,” Nic says ten minutes later as I nail the drop I’ve been finessing for weeks.

“Thank you,” I say breathlessly, dismounting and gripping the hoop to keep it from hitting me in the head. “I’ve been practicing.”

“Clearly.”

Now’s my best shot. I cock my head, hoping he doesn’t see right through me. “Would you dance with me?”

His expression is impassive. Careful. “Why would I do that?”

“So your body can tell me truths your mouth keeps locked away,” I say, mimicking his deep voice in an echo of what he said when he asked me to dance during the tournament. “Or some such nonsense.”

A chuckle rumbles in his chest, a smile creeping to his mouth in spite of himself. “Such a vexing little creature,” he says, kicking off his shoes and tossing aside his fedora.

“Wasn’t it ‘confounding?’” I tap my chin. “No, ‘tempting,’ I think it was.”

“Perhaps you should check a thesaurus.”

The casual jab, the teasing glint in his eye . . . I can almost grasp the Nic I know, almost see him, but his irises still glow that cold shade of violet. Distant and careful. Like this is a dance he’s scared to flounder.

Stars, how can a voice feel so achingly familiar and yet so utterly foreign at the same time? How can that longing in my heart hurt more than it already does?

I swallow the lump in my throat as he shrugs out of his jacket. Draping it on a nearby chair and rolling up his sleeves, he turns to face me in his dress shirt and vest tucked into midnight black slacks. His snake-eye ring glimmers as he holds out his hands. “Shall we?”

“I’m just waiting for you, your royal Liar-ness,” I say, voice thick.

If he notices, he does not act like it. Instead, he approaches the hoop. “Mirroring each other?”

I shrug. “You’re the expert. I’ve never been on a hoop with someone else before, unless you count that one time with you.”

“Turn the hoop to the right and hook your right knee on three. Ready?”

I nod, trying to ignore the way my heart flutters when he meets my eye.

“One . . . ,” he says. “Two . . . three.”

The hoop sets to spinning, and we both swing our right legs over in tandem, our left legs pointing past each other.

“Crescent roll up,” he instructs. “And . . . go.”