As much as I’d like to, I can’t analyze whatever we are to each other right now. Not with Tyson and his lackey talking about flying private, and the unexplained duffel bag at Wesley’s side.
Right now I need answers.
“Who are they? Really,” I ask, nodding to Tyson. “What do they want from you, and why are they talking about private planes?”
Wesley looks over at them, and then back at me, giving me the impression he doesn’t want to tell me this. Too bad for him because I’m not moving until someone starts talking. “They’re part of a secret society,” he finally says. “Black Templar—basically a bunch of pretentious douchebags who think they own the world.”
“You should be careful of what you say,” Tyson warns coolly.
“And you should give me some fucking space right now.” Wesley steers a hard gaze on him, clenching his fists. “Don’t forget how you got that black eye. I’m pretty sure I could give you another one to match it before anyone manages to pull me off of you.”
Tyson’s lip curls, the rage in his eyes unmistakable. “You’ve always thought you were so damned special, Wes, but I have news for you. Throwing your fists around won’t work here. Being a Kent won’t work here either. Your dad’s name doesn’t mean anything to Black Templar.”
The hatred and jealousy in Tyson’s eyes is real, and all of it directed at Wesley. Apparently there was another layer he kept hidden beneath his charming party guy façade. How the hell he kept it buried for so long is amazing to me.
“A lot of things don’t matter to Black Templar, friend,” Wesley mutters in disgust.
Tyson stands there for a few seconds, staring Wesley down. The tension in this room is so jolting, it feels like one of them will explode at any second. Then, surprisingly, Tyson backs off and heads to the door. “You have five minutes. The plane leaves in fifteen. Don’t even think about trying something stupid.”
As soon as they’re out the door, my questions spill out in quick succession. “Why is he doing this, Wes? What do they want from you? And you still haven’t told me why there’s a plane waiting. I hope he doesn’t think I’m going anywhere with him after keeping me tied up to a chair for hours on end.”
“Dahlia, you need to calm down. I swear I’ll get us out of this mess.” Wesley places his hands over mine, squeezing them, his voice and closeness soothing me in a way that makes me believe him. “Tyson is doing this because he’s a backstabbing asshole, and he wants an artifact he knows I have, because he was there with me when I found it.”
“Why?” I shake my head, trying to understand.
“It’s ancient,” he says, shrugging. “And priceless.”
“Did he use you to find it? Is that why he pretended to be your friend?”
Wesley nods. “My dad had a reputation. Black Templar knew he had a knack at finding lost treasure, and Tyson got close to me for the sole purpose of using me to get what they wanted. To his credit, I never saw through his act. But what he didn’t expect was that I’d hide the treasure. I think he assumed I’d keep it in Kent Library, which, by the way is why that guy broke in on the night of the hurricane.”
Okay. I think I start to understand. Tyson probably got another chance to look in the library during the party they threw for Wesley at Kent House. None of us were paying attention to him, too caught up with what was going on with Christine, and then seeing Gwen and Miles. Kidnapping me must be his backup plan.
“So if you didn’t stash it in the house, where is this artifact?”
Shuffling his feet, Wesley readjusts the duffel bag’s strap on his shoulder. I brace myself, betting anything this is the part where the plane comes in.
“It’s not…here. Not exactly.”
“When you say here, please tell me you mean it’s not in Gainesville.”
He shakes his head.
“Not in Florida?” I ask, hopeful.
“Not in this country,” he admits, wincing. “It’s in Morocco.”
I let out a deep breath. “Okay. I can deal with this. Why is it in Morocco?”
“I left it there for safe keeping…with my uncle.”
“Why didn’t you bring it here?”
“Because I knew I was being followed in Egypt. Not only that, but I had to account for everything I brought back with me after the excavation in Egypt. If I had been caught with the artifact, their treasure laws would’ve prevented me from taking it. I figured I’d bide my time and go back when I felt it was safe.”
I shake my head. Of course he wouldn’t have risked getting caught. He’s a Kent. When it comes to treasure, Kents don’t adhere to legalities; they find ways around it.
“So let me guess. Black Templar wants you to guide them there, right?”
“Yes.”
“And now I have to come too?”
“I’m sorry, babe, but I’m not leaving you alone with them. I don’t have another choice, since they’re refusing to release you until they get their artifact.”
“Why do you keep calling it that?” I tilt my head as I try to read his face, sensing he’s still keeping something from me. “Why can’t you come out and tell me what it is? We’ve both studied archeology. It’s not like I’m some clueless bystander.”
He runs a hand through his hair, letting out another deep breath. “I’m not sure why I hoped you wouldn’t ask me that.”
“Just come out and say it, Wes,” I tell him. “I’ve been through enough already. I can handle this.”
The corners of his eyes tighten as he looks at me. “It’s the Saiful Azman.”
The words take a few seconds to register, and when they do, I feel them slam into me like fists. For a second, I wonder if I heard him correctly. I almost want to ask him, just to be sure. My mind could be playing tricks on me. Maybe I’ve been caught up in this nightmare for so long that my brain wants to keep going with it, extending the torture.
But when I look at Wesley’s face and see the way he’s looking at me—like he’s afraid of my reaction—I know I heard him right the first time.
“Say something,” he pleads with me.
Say something?
I swallow, unsure of where to begin. How could I possibly think of anything to say right now? I don’t even know what to think, or how to feel. All I can do is stand there in total silence, trying to figure out how to overcome the shock over hearing those words. It’s the Saiful Azman. They repeat over and over inside my mind, getting louder by the second.
“You really found it?” I whisper, my voice breaking. “The Sword of Dreams?”
When he nods, I feel my throat go dry and my stomach turn in knots. Part of me refuses to believe he’s telling the truth. He couldn’t have found that sword. Not my sword.
I feel his eyes on me, watching me as if he’s waiting for me to crumble. “I swear I didn’t know you were looking for it until recently. My brother had been searching for it for years. He was chasing down leads in India right before he got into the car crash that killed him. I swore I’d find it for him…I swore his work wouldn’t go unfinished.”
I nod, taking that in. My gaze drops to the floor, and I cradle my stomach. I feel sick. Countless nights I’ve spent dreaming of that sword, envisioning it in my mind, picturing it in my hands. All for nothing. And here I am, standing beside the boy who already dug it up, the boy who lived out my dreams and didn’t even know it.
“Dahlia, say something. Please.”
I almost want to laugh, because there are so many things to say, and yet nothing at all. I can’t be mad at him. It’s not his fault he found the sword before I could. But I can’t be happy either, because it can never be unfound. My hands will never be the first to uncover it. My eyes will never be the first to absorb its beauty.
Of course he’d be the one to find it. He’s Harland’s son after all; I should’ve known he’d be looking too.
I want to ask him so many questions, like what it looks like, and if it’s really made of solid gold. I want to ask him where he
found it, how he tracked it down, and whether it was buried or if it had been stored in some ancient tomb.
So many questions…but I don’t ask any of them. There’s a painful lump lodged against the back of my throat preventing me from speaking. My eyes and nose sting, and the only thing I want to do is go home, lock myself in my room, and spend the next few days crying my eyes out. But I can’t do that either.
Instead I have to go to Morocco and watch Wesley hand over my dream to the members of Black Templar. Before I’m allowed to fall apart, I have to feel my heart ripped out a little more.
“Let’s just go,” I say, blinking back the tears threatening to give way. I move toward the door. “Do you have my passport?”
“Yes. I asked Gwen to help me find it.”
“Good.” I reach for the handle, pausing. There’s still one thing on my mind. “Why didn’t you just call the police?”
“I didn’t want to risk it.”
“Why not? We can risk it together. The first chance we get, we can try to run. I’d rather do that than watch you give the Saiful Azman to them.”
Wesley shakes his head. “I’d rather just give it to them. Even if we escape, they’ll keep coming back until they get what they want. Before, when it was just me they were after, that was fine. I could handle it. But I won’t risk you too. Your life is too important…” he let’s out a heavy sigh. “Dahlia, you’re too important to me.”
If I had heard him say those words ten minutes ago, it would’ve thrilled me. But hearing them now is like watching it happen instead of feeling it happen. I can’t react to this, not with the shock of knowing everything I’ve worked for is gone.
“Fine,” I say quietly. “Let’s just go.”
Somehow I stumble out of the building with my composure intact. When I get outside I notice Tyson had been keeping me in the Philosophy Hall—an old abandoned building on campus due for reconstruction. I let out a small laugh. All this time I’d been wondering where I was, and they never even took me off campus.
A black van waits for us behind the building. Tyson opens the door. “Get in.”
Wesley and I do as he says. The van takes off at a speedy rate, in a hurry to get us to whatever plane we’re being driven to.
“You okay?” Wesley whispers.
I nod, keeping my gaze focused ahead.
But inside I am the furthest thing from okay. Inside I’m wondering how the hell I’m going to get through this.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
WESLEY
Her silence is killing me. There’s a million things I’d like to say, but I feel like all of them are the wrong things. I can’t imagine how she feels. If it were possible, I’d go back in time and bring her on that expedition with me. I’d lead her to the sword and swear to everyone she found it on her own.
Whoa.
It’s true. I really would give her the damned sword if I could. Sam was my brother, my best friend, and I loved him. I would’ve done anything for him. Searching for the sword was his passion, and he dreamed of finding it, therefore I dreamed of finding it.
But Sam didn’t need it. Not the way Dahlia does.
Resting her head against the wall of the plane, she quietly stares out the window, making me wish I had the right fucking words to make this better. I cough uncomfortably, and try and come up with something.
“Dahlia…” Yeah, I’ve got nothing.
“It’s okay,” she says without looking at me. “We don’t need to talk.”
“Don’t you think we should?”
“It’s just treasure,” she says, shrugging. “There’s a lot more of it in this world to be discovered.”
She’s lying. It’s not just treasure to her. The problem is she doesn’t know that I know what it means to her, but how can I express that without telling her I went to Barakat’s class and discovered who he really is? She doesn’t want to open up about him, and that’s driving me crazier than anything else.
I need to get her out of her own head. I unfasten my seatbelt, click the button on hers and yank her up by her arm.
“Hey—”
“Come with me.”
Thankfully she doesn’t ask any questions. Tyson and his crew eye me on the way to the jet’s restroom, but they don’t try to stop me. I steer Dahlia inside, closing the door behind us. Then I flick the lock to OCCUPIED.
“You’re being a little pushy,” she says, eyeing the door. “What’s this about?”
“Go ahead and yell at me,” I say, turning to face her. “Get it out of your system.”
The restroom’s cabin is small, and we’re crammed closely together. It’s not the most ideal place for this conversation, but since we’re on a jet with eight members of Black Templar watching our every move, this bathroom is the only option for privacy.
“Why would I want to yell at you?”
“Because you’re angry. And you’re hurt. And you need to get it out.”
She shakes her head. “No, Wesley, that’s stupid. I’m not angry. Now please let me out of here.”
I lean against the doorframe, refusing to budge. “Not until you get it out.”
“You keeping me trapped in here is the only thing bothering me right now,” she says in an annoyed tone.
“Come on, don’t be a wuss.” I reach out and shove her shoulder. “Scream at me if it makes you feel better.”
“Did you just push me?” She looks at the spot on her shoulder where I shoved her, and then looks back at me, her mouth hanging open.
“So what?” I shove her shoulder again, more forceful this time. “What are you going to do about it?”
“I can’t believe you just did that. Again,” she says, her eyes bulging. “You do realize I’m a girl, don’t you?”
“It didn’t escape my notice.”
“So then stop pushing me!” She points a finger at me to emphasize her point.
“If it makes you so mad, then push me back. Get it out.”
“No.” She stubbornly shakes her head. “I’m not mad, and I’m not your puppet. You can’t just expect me to do things because you say so.”
“So it doesn’t piss you off that I found the sword before you did?”
There’s a long pause before she answers. “No.”
I narrow my eyes on her, noticing the way her voice went up a notch. “You sure about that? Because if you’d spent more time searching instead of hiding behind your little books, you might’ve beat me to it.”
I’m taunting her, and I feel kind of bad about it, but she’s not cracking. I need her to tell me the truth. I need her to trust me enough to do that.
“All you ever did was research, Dahlia. Why didn’t you look for it?”
Teeth clenched, she breathes out through her nostrils. “That’s not fair. I didn’t know where to look.”
“Or maybe you weren’t adventurous enough to try.”
Before I know what’s happening, Dahlia slams her hands against my chest, shoving me into the cabin door.
Damn.
I didn’t know she had it in her. “Thought you said you weren’t angry.”
“Apparently I lied.”
A knock sounds at the door. “Everything all right in there?”
“It’s fine. Go away,” I growl out. Then, turning back to Dahlia, I push her for more. “Tell me why you’re angry.”
Tears threaten to spill, and it gives me hope. Her walls are starting to come down. “I hate that you found it before me,” she whispers.
“What else?”
Sighing, she waves her hand dismissively. “I don’t know.”
I turn her chin up, forcing her to look at me. “What else?”
Her whole face tightens. She glares at me, directing all the pent up anger and frustration she tried to hide with one look. “I hate that I should’ve known better. I hate that you are so much like your dad, and I hate that you hate him because he was a good person. The best kind of person.” She clenches her hands into fists at her sides. “And
I hate what you said about my mother.”
Hearing her words feel like a fist to the gut, but I take it all. I know I have this coming. “And?”
“I hate what you thought about me.”
“Louder. I can’t hear you.”
She throws her fist against my chest, her voice rising. “I hate that you believed what Christine said, dammit!”
“Why the hell do you care what I think?” I yell back.
“I don’t know.” She takes a step back, shaking. “I shouldn’t.”
“But you do.”
She nods. “Before this year, we were ghosts living in the same house. You were nothing to me…I almost wish you were still nothing to me.”
I flinch. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do!” she cries out. “Everything would be so much easier. I’d rather feel nothing than—”
Before I think about what I’m doing, I grab Dahlia by the waist and pull her against me. My mouth crashes into hers, and without hesitation, she draws her arms behind my neck, kissing me back with a shocking fierceness.
I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just wanted to give her space to vent, but now I can’t seem to control myself. I can’t stop myself from touching her, hoping to somehow erase what she said.
We both slam into the wall of the bathroom door. I lift Dahlia up, sliding her onto the small sink’s counter. Her fingers grip my collar, and she pulls me toward her, wrapping her legs around my waist.
I kiss her like a starved man, unable to get enough. Her breath is coming in short gasps, and it thrills me to hear every single one. The kiss intensifies, and I begin to lose myself in the moment.
Another knock sounds at the door.
“What’s going on in there?” Someone calls out, rattling the locked handle. “Open up!”
“Ignore them,” I order Dahlia, kissing her along her jawline.
“Ignore who?” She looks at me, her eyelids heavy with passion. She grabs my face, guiding my mouth back to hers.
I kiss her again, living in the moment, unfazed by the persistent banging on the door. Neither of us seem to care about anything but each other. The outside world becomes a distant background noise. All I can concentrate on is the warmth of Dahlia’s breath against my lips, the amazing way her skin feels, and how fucking good she tastes. I don’t want it to end.
Pretending Page 23