Текст книги "Seven Nights to Surrender"

Автор книги: Jeanette Grey

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

chapter FOURTEEN

Sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains over their window. They must’ve forgotten to pull the heavier shades the night before.

Just as well.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Rylan turned over in the bed. Kate was still asleep, her hair mussed. She’d insisted on wearing a tank top and some pretty, lacy panties to bed, but the way the sheets were tangled around her, he could almost imagine she was naked.

God, her skin was so smooth and soft. His morning arousal gave a little twitch, and he reached down to adjust himself inside the boxers he’d resigned himself to keeping on for her. All she’d had to do was give him that look as he’d been undressing.

All she ever seemed to have to do was give him a look, and he was doing a whole host of things he normally never would.

That should probably be bothering him more.

She made a little sound in her sleep, snuffling and burrowing her face against the pillow. She was resting on her side, twisted away from him, the sheets tucked under her arm and rucked up across the middle of her thigh, leaving her long, bare calf exposed.

He didn’t want to wake her, but he couldn’t resist. Propping himself up on one elbow, he reached his other hand out, skimming it along her shoulder and pushing her hair aside. A huff of a sigh escaped her lips, but she barely stirred, so he shifted closer.

His chest fit to her spine like they’d been made to lock together that way, and he set his lips to the side of her throat. Trailing a line of soft, sucking kisses along that sleep-warm skin, he let his erection graze her rear and swallowed the groan the contact pulled from him. If they were fucking already, he could pull the panel of her panties to the side. Be buried in all that nice, slick warmth. Take her nice and slow, rocking them to a sweet morning peak.

If they were fucking.

He breathed his want into her skin and grazed the backs of his knuckles down her arm. She hummed, finally showing signs of life as she let him entwine their hands.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Early.” He had no idea, honestly. All he knew was that she was beautiful, and she felt so good against him. He could stay there all day, kissing her and trailing his hands across her skin.

But Kate had other things in mind. Lifting her head, she glanced around. “Ugh, it’s after eight,” she said, flopping back down and covering her eyes with her arm.

That had him looking for the clock, too. He never slept so late. Sure enough, though, the bright red numbers read 8:17.

Huh.

He shrugged, then resituated himself on his stomach, his hard-on pressing into the mattress as he held himself over her, dipping to kiss her cheek and her ear and her chin. “Day’s a-wasting?” He peeled her hand away from her eyes.

But what waited for him wasn’t the easy flirtiness he’d been hoping for. Instead, there was actual anxiety. “Yeah, actually. It kind of is.”

“Nothing opens until nine anyway. So we grab croissants to go. No harm done.” He leaned in to kiss her mouth.

She let him, for a minute, but all too soon she was pulling back. “We should get up.”

“I like getting down better.”

“Ugh, do you ever stop?”

“Not if I can help it.”

She was a mess of mixed signals, body melting beneath his kisses even as she was pushing him back. She half sat up. “Do you want first shower or should I?”

“We could share.”

He’d love that. She was always putting her damn clothes back on. Even when she let him get her naked, it was never for long. In the shower, he could touch her all over. Wash her back. Maybe warm her up enough to let him get his hand or his mouth between her thighs.

Or maybe not, considering the look she was giving him.

“What?” he asked. “I hate to waste water, is all.”

“You hate to waste an opportunity to get me undressed.”

“Waste is a sin in all its forms.”

Rolling her eyes, she put her hand right in his face and shoved him away. Apparently, she really meant it this time. She got her legs under her and clambered off the bed, heading toward the bathroom.

“Kate—”

She closed the door behind herself before he could say anything further.

Well, great.

He lay down again on his back, staring up at the ceiling. The light on his phone was blinking, but he didn’t want to deal with any of the shit that could be waiting for him. The people from his father’s company. McConnell, with his casual updates that fulfilled his duties while making it perfectly clear he’d be happy if Rylan stayed away. Or Thomas with his even worse entreaties to return and set things right. His sister. God, Lexie was the worst. He missed her fiercely, but the only thing she could talk about these days was how much he was letting her down.

He was letting them all down, but they could rot. He’d given them enough. Someday maybe they’d understand that. Until then, they could all wait another goddamn day—or another year. He stretched an arm out to flip the screen over so he wouldn’t have to look at the alert.

In the other room, the water for the shower turned on, and he clunked his fist against the headboard. His morning wood had subsided a little, but it wouldn’t take much to get it going again. Just thinking about Kate standing underneath the spray, soap bubbles clinging to her curves . . .

“You coming?”

He startled, sitting up all at once. Somehow, he’d missed the door opening again. And there she stood, leaning against it, invitation written all over her face.

“Hopefully I’m about to be,” he mumbled under his breath.

He tossed the sheets off and launched himself out of bed. A handful of strides, and he was on her, picking her up and spinning her around. When he set her down, it was with one hand coming to cup the back of her neck, pulling her into a long, filthy kiss. She didn’t fight him this time, so he reached for the hem of her top and pushed it up.

“What’s your hurry?” she asked as she let him lift it over her head.

“Told you. Hate to waste water.”

“Uh-huh.”

Her underwear and his followed quickly enough. His erection pressed against the soft skin of her abdomen and he groaned. “Come on,” he said, tugging her toward the shower. “Before I have to eat you out on the countertop.”

“Is that supposed to dissuade me?”

He didn’t even know.

Somehow or other, they managed to get the shower curtain shoved aside. He climbed in, barely letting go of her as he dragged her in after. Around them, the water threw up little licks of steam as it beat down on their skin, and it was perfect.

It got even better when she reached between them and got a hand around his cock.

“Fuck.” He bit down harder on her lip than he’d meant to.

“Okay?” she asked.

“So okay.”

He kissed her and kissed her, curling his hands around her tits. All slippery with water, they fit just right in the palms of his hands, and they pebbled up nice and hard when he stroked her nipples with his thumbs. She made the best little noises, too, and what had been starting to look like a letdown of a morning was positively rosy once she got a good rhythm going.

Letting go of one of her breasts, he felt around blindly behind his back until he connected with a bar of soap. He grabbed it and lathered it up, then wrapped his hand around hers. “A little tighter,” he urged, and fuck, yeah. “That’s right.”

He rocked his hips, fucking into their fists, and with the soap it was all easy and slick. He clutched her close, mouth open against her temple, urging her faster and faster until—

The feeling came all the way from his toes, drawing his balls tight before exploding forward in a rush. He might have blanked out for a second, and his knees wobbled. He threw a hand out to brace himself against the tile.

She laughed as he twitched. He was shockingly sensitive in her grip as she pumped the last of it out of him. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he stilled her wrist, shuddering as she dragged her palm over the head before letting him go. He rubbed his fingers over hers, smoothing the mess away, then caught her face in his hands.

He kissed her, soft and grateful. “What brought that on?”

“You seemed like you needed it.”

Kind of an overstatement, but he wasn’t objecting.

She turned her face away, looking down and kissing his chest. He wrapped her up in his arms and squeezed her tight.

“Can I return the favor?”

She shook her head. “Maybe tonight.”

Disappointing, but not exactly a surprise. Loosening his hold, he pressed his lips to hers. “Definitely tonight.” He paused before he let her go; considering what she’d told him about her sex life before this, he wanted to make sure. “You know you didn’t have to do that, right? Guys can’t actually die of blue balls.”

“I know.” She still wasn’t quite looking at him, but there was a sly smile spreading across her face. A new, different one from any he’d seen on her before. “I wanted to.”

“Okay.” He kissed the top of her head and pulled away.

He set down the bar of soap he’d somehow managed to hold on to through it all and perused the collection of little bottles lining the built-in shelf. When he found one that said shampoo, he picked it up and poured some into his palm.

“Didn’t you bring your own?” she asked.

“Yeah. But this isn’t for me. Turn around.”

She leveled him with a questioning look but did as he’d asked. Her hair was wet enough from the time they’d spent messing around. With gentle hands, he started working the shampoo into it. The slowly forming suds smelled sweet. Not overpowering. Just nice.

“I love your hair,” he said quietly.

She shivered.

He took his time, massaging her scalp, giving her the attention she’d given to him sexually, but in a different way. Taking care of her like this . . . it made something in his heart feel raw.

He dropped his hands and shifted to put his back to the tile. “You can have the water.”

She gave him another, different look, then snuck past him, tilting her head down into the spray.

The water made the soap cascade along her curves, soft white washes of foam caressing pale skin. His body was still ringing with satisfaction, but looking at her made him want to start things all over again.

To distract himself, he plucked his own shampoo off a different shelf. Working it into his hair with brisk efficiency, he turned his mind to other things.

“So I was thinking,” he said.

“Hmm?”

“How do you feel about going to Versailles today?” Girls tended to like all the frilly décor and dresses and things. Not that he took many women there. It was a bit of a trek, after all. But he wouldn’t mind a train ride into the country with her.

She twisted around, grabbing a little bottle of conditioner to work into her hair. “I don’t know.”

He was getting into the idea now, though. He could take her around the castle, then they could grab a nice dinner somewhere outside the city. Get some fresh air. Walk around, hand in hand, like a couple of romantics.

It’d be different. Nice.

“I think you’d like it. It’s a weekday, so the crowds won’t be too bad.”

“I just—” Her tone made him come up short.

Shampoo threatened to drip into his eyes. He wiped it away with his wrist. She sighed, rinsing the conditioner out of her hair before trading places with him again so he could scrub at his own.

His eyes were still closed, and her voice only barely rose over the pounding of the water.

“I was thinking maybe I’d head out and do my own thing today.”

Oh. “Oh.”

“I mean, I’ve only got three full days left, and I haven’t gotten nearly as much drawing done as I’d planned to. I’ve still got all these things to figure out before I go home. And I’ve been having fun with you, but . . .”

She trailed off, but he could fill in the blanks. He was a diversion. A distraction. She had other things to worry about.

The whole thing made him feel sort of hollow.

Holding his tongue, he took a little longer under the spray than he really needed. She had limited time here and a lot to do, but he had limited time, too. Limited time with her. Limited time to spend not bored and alone and spinning his wheels.

When he couldn’t pretend to have any more soap in his hair, he sighed and turned around. “Fine. No problem.”

Her expression was hopeful in a way that just squeezed the emptiness harder. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Whatever you need to do. We can hit Versailles tomorrow.” He hesitated, working to sound nonchalant. “If you have time.”

“We’ll see.” She had a mesh pouf in her hand and started working a softly scented lather over her chest.

He flexed his hands at his sides. Then gave up. Keeping his distance was fucking stupid, especially in a five-by-two-foot tub.

“Here. Let me.”

He reached out and took the sponge from her, grazing her skin as he did. She consented, flipping her hair out of the way and turning so he could soap her back. He traced the sloping lines of her body with an intensity that surprised even him. Memorizing.

“The thing is—” She cut herself off, and he paused, surprised. “With wanting to go work on some art stuff today.”

“Yeah?” He returned to sliding the sponge along her curves.

“Remember how I came here to find myself?” Her inflection held the same self-mocking lilt to it as the first time they’d met. When she’d admitted to being an artist and a dreamer, and had begun to wrap him around her finger.

So he echoed it, too, his smile wry. “It’s a romantic notion.”

“But it’s actually true.” She turned, and he let his hand drop to his side. She took the sponge from him and bent to soap her legs. When she straightened up again, determination colored her expression. “I got accepted into an MFA program.”

His brows rose toward his hairline. A master of fine arts? That was a pretty big deal. “Wow. Congratulations.”

Pride warred with demureness in her tone, making her voice pitch higher. “At a really good school, too. At Columbia. In New York, so I can keep my apartment and everything.”

“So what’s the debate?”

“I didn’t want to put all my eggs in one basket. So I applied for a bunch of jobs, too. And I got offered one of them right before I left.” She hesitated before adding, “At an ad agency. Entry level, but it would pay the bills.”

“Well, that’s great, too.” Insane that she would even be considering it when she had a chance to pursue what she obviously loved, but great. He guessed.

She pointed toward the water, and he shifted, making room for her to trade places with him. As she stepped beneath the spray, the lather twisted and ran, sliding in foaming sheets along her form, and his throat went dry.

She rinsed herself off in a way that must have been designed to torture him, then hung up her pouf and sluiced the water from her eyes. “I can’t do both, is all. I have to decide.”

“Is it really that much of a decision?”

“Yeah. Just the biggest one ever.” She twisted her knuckles. “So this whole trip—it was supposed to be about finding inspiration, or discovering myself, or whatever. But it’s about deciding some things, too.”

He couldn’t hide his confusion anymore. “But you love art.”

She made a snorting sound. “I love eating, too.”

“But you love art.” He wasn’t letting that go.

“Love isn’t always enough, you know. People don’t make a living painting.”

It sounded like she was parroting back someone else’s words.

He shook his head. “You could.”

She dropped his gaze, and he reached out, putting a hand on her shoulder and the other on her waist.

“You could,” he repeated.

She leaned in and kissed his chest, then rested the side of her face there, inviting him to put his arms around her. “Guess I still have to prove that to myself,” she said.

He held her close and bit his tongue.

She had no idea how lucky she was, having the opportunity to decide. Once upon a time, he would’ve given anything for that chance. Instead, there’d been his father’s college and his father’s company and his father’s entire fucking life laid out in front of him. Even when he hadn’t hated what he was doing, he’d had that hemmed-in, caged feeling pushing on him.

And here Kate had all these options. All these dreams.

He wouldn’t be the one to stand in the way of her choosing to follow them.

“Okay.” He pulled away enough to press his lips against her temple. “I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed, but I understand.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He let her go, then reached for his bar of soap. Moving quickly, he lathered it up and spread the suds across his chest.

When she spoke again, it was tentative. “Any idea what you’ll do today?”

“Not sure.” He hadn’t really planned on having a day to kill on his own. “Catch up on some things I suppose.” He probably had a lot of emails to delete. That would take at least ten minutes.

“Will you spend it here?”

He slowed the motions of his hands. “Do you want me to?”

She shrugged, then stepped aside so he could get under the spray. “I don’t think I’ll be gone the entire day. I could meet you when I’m done? Maybe relax a bit before dinner.”

He’d like that. “Sure.” He ducked his head under the water. Once he’d slicked his hair from his face, he said, “I’ll head back here by late afternoon?”

“Okay.”

A few hours, cooling his heels by himself. That was practically nothing.

It would feel like nothing, after. When she was gone for good.

He didn’t want to think about that now. He finished rinsing off and sluiced the water from his eyes. Despite the curls of steam, she looked cold, standing near the back of the shower. He held out a hand in invitation. “Come here.”

She came without resistance. Pulling her flush against his body, he opened his mouth against hers, drinking her in. He closed his eyes. And held on.

chapter FIFTEEN

Kate had let herself get way, way too comfortable with Rylan doing all the work on their adventures together. It gave her an uneasy, restless feeling, realizing how much she’d come to rely on him.

She mentally shook her head at herself. Well, not today. Today, she sat in her seat on the Metro on her own, watching the signs go by. Navigating the system and the language barrier all by herself.

Part of the appeal of foreign travel was finding your way around, after all. Immersing yourself in a whole new place, hearing different words in different tongues. She’d been missing that part of the experience, letting him do all the talking for her.

She’d gained another kind of experience, though. Her cheeks flushed warm as she tried not to think about the things they’d done these past few nights. It had been good. Really good. But that wasn’t the point right now. It didn’t matter how much she’d been enjoying herself—sex wasn’t going to help her figure out her life.

And nothing was as easy as Rylan made it out to be.

Her stomach did a twisting set of flips as she recalled his reaction to her grad school dilemma. He’d made it all seem so simple. She loved art, so therefore she should go for it, give it her all. Risk everything. The very idea of it was terrifying.

And thrilling. She’d never gotten that kind of support before. Had someone stand up to her father’s voice in her head, telling her that drawing was a waste of time. She was a waste of time.

The twisting in her stomach turned into a hard, painful clench.

Rylan’s words had made her feel better about considering taking this chance. But they were just a few words, after years and years of being made to feel like she wasn’t enough. Sure, Rylan’s opinion was the one she wanted to believe. But she still had to prove that she was worth this chance. At least to herself.

Before long, her stop came up, and she rose, clutching her bag close as she made her way off the train and up to the surface.

Of course, that was where she really had to start paying attention.

With her mental map firmly in grasp—and her paper one tucked away so she didn’t look like too much of a clueless tourist—she headed north, keeping an eye out for the things that looked familiar. More than once, she half turned to point something out or ask a question. To grab Rylan’s hand.

She rolled her eyes at herself as she crossed the street. Stupid. She’d left him behind not only because she needed some time to herself—which she did.

But also because she was embarrassed to admit that she was going back to someplace she’d already been.

Her very first day with him, she’d sworn she’d find some time to go back to the Louvre, but as her time in the city had flown by, it hadn’t been the old, grand paintings in the museum that had called to her to visit them again. Instead, it had been the city itself. The version of it that Rylan had shown her. The top of the hill where he’d challenged her to open her eyes.

And she had. And what she’d seen had been beautiful.

Montmartre was just as bustling, the climb to the top of Sacred Heart just as arduous as she remembered. But somehow, when she finally reached the top of it, the view of rooftops and skyscrapers and the swath of city spreading out before her toward the horizon was even more incredible. The feeling of lightness in her chest more expansive.

Winding her way through the thinner weekday morning crowds, she found a spot at the railing near where they had stood together Sunday afternoon. It was earlier in the day, so the angle of the sun was different, but she could work with that. She picked out a place to sit a few feet away and pulled out her tools, planning ahead in her mind. Graphite on paper to start with. Then if she liked where that was going, she had some other options. Colored Conté crayons or charcoal. A cheap little set of watercolors. Concentrating, she decided on a composition and dug in, sweeping her pencil across the page.

Twenty minutes later, she had a fair representation of the scene. She held it out at arm’s length and looked at it, frowning. Accurate, but not emotive. It didn’t give any sense at all of how it felt to be there, looking out across the Paris skyline.

Frustrated, she flipped the page and started again, attacking the scene with more fervor this time, laying down bolder lines and deeper swaths of shading. Trying to pour the light and air and scent of Montmartre into her page.

Her piece of charcoal snapped in half within her grip, and she blinked furiously against the blurring of her vision as she stared down at what she’d done. Her eyes prickled harder, and her breath got short. Shit, this one was even worse.

She wanted to fling the whole damn sketchbook off a cliff. Who did she think she was kidding? This was high school–level work; she’d be laughed out of critique for it. She’d be laughed out of grad school.

And there was that voice again.

The worst part was, her dad had almost never told her to her face that she wasn’t good enough. He’d said it with his frowns and his disappointed sighs. His absolute disinterest when she tried to show him something.

He’d said it to her mother. Maybe he’d thought she couldn’t hear, or worse, maybe he hadn’t cared. She’d been right in the next room. She’s wasting her time on that crap. Like hell I’m paying for lessons. She’s gotta grow up sometime . . .

Maybe it was time to grow up. To give up.

She dug her nails into her palms, sharp enough to snap her out of it. No. No way in hell she was giving up. She’d spent the last ten years overcoming that kind of thinking, working to banish that doubt. It hadn’t been easy, after she and her mother had finally left, but it had been good. There’d been no more tiptoeing around a quiet house, afraid to awaken a sleeping beast. There’d been a tiny apartment full of love, and there’d been her mom, telling her she could do anything. Be anything.

Just like Rylan had this morning. Rylan, who’d taken it for granted that of course she could make it in the New York art scene. Rylan, who barely knew her and who believed in her.

She swiped a clean part of her wrist across her eyes. She was better than this. She could do better than this.

Turning the page, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

In her mind, she was back there on that Sunday afternoon, on this very hill and on the footsteps of this very church. Rylan stood behind her, his chest broad and solid against her spine, his hands warm on her skin. He’d kissed her neck the way he seemed so fond of doing—the way that made her shiver and turn to mush.

She’d felt something more than just in awe of the city at the time. Tired from the climb, and close to someone who was interesting and beautiful and who treated her like she and her pleasure were precious. She’d felt . . . connected. To Paris. To her own life and breath.

To a man with more secrets than she had time.

That wasn’t the doubt she needed right now.

If he were here, he’d be sitting right beside her. Quiet and supportive. Reading or playing with his phone, making random comments as they struck him. But he’d be patient. He’d let her see the city the way he knew and loved it. He’d let her make something of what she saw.

She opened her eyes again, and the cityscape in front of her seemed to resolve itself. Without looking, she traded her pencil for a stick of soft, ephemeral vine charcoal and started sweeping out the world in broad strokes.

Once she had the basic shapes sketched in, she eyed the work she’d done. She was calmer now, better able to look at it with an analytical eye. It needed more bulk. More weight. She fumbled for the little tin of powdered charcoal she’d made fun of herself for bringing at the time. It was such a mess, but when she dipped her fingertips into it, the sootiness of it felt right. She smeared it onto the page, using the hard pressure of her strokes to show the crevices and depths between buildings. A light blush of it to hint at the wispy expanses of clouds in the sky.

Darker, more permanent compressed charcoal now. Finer lines. Her fingers started adding in other things, too. Spindly intimations of connections between rooftops and streets, anchoring the sky to the earth. Tying her and it and the lover she could almost feel behind her back together in one rough portrait of a place. Of a time.

Of herself, from beyond the page.

Finally, she set her stick of charcoal aside. Her shoulders were stiff and her left foot was half-asleep, but in her lap, she had a drawing. She regarded the image for a long, long time. Relief broke over her like the dawn.

When she looked up at the city again, she smiled.

There was something wrong with Rylan. His incessant pacing brought him face to face with a wall again, and he groaned before turning around. Putting his back to the plaster, he covered his face with his hands.

Late afternoon. He was supposed to meet Kate back here at the room sometime in the late afternoon, and here it was, barely past two and he was wearing a hole in the carpet waiting for her.

But what else was he supposed to do? He’d gone for a run, then stopped by the apartment to swap out some of his dirty clothes for clean ones. Had lunch in a café and caught up on the business papers. Deleted emails and voicemails from his inbox.

On a normal day, he’d read a book or watch a movie or maybe cruise for pretty girls beneath the Eiffel Tower, but none of that appealed right now. He just wanted Kate to get home already so he could ask to flip through her sketchbook. Tell her she was amazing, and that she was insane for even considering turning down a chance to pursue her art for real. Take her to dinner and then turn all his charm to getting her naked with him again.

He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.

What the hell had he been doing with his life before this week?

He’d just about finished another circuit of this stupid, tiny room when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, hoping like hell that it would be some kind of diversion.

His sister’s face stared back at him from the screen, and his thumb froze over the button to either accept or ignore the call.

They’d spoken a couple of times in the year he’d been away. It’d been a while, though. The last time, she’d been relentless in her insistence that he come home. He hadn’t picked the phone up since.

He surprised himself when he did today.

He stared blankly at the screen as Lexie’s voice, distant but there, came across the speaker. “Teddy? You there? . . . Teddy?”

God, he hated that nickname. Forget that he didn’t even go by Theodore anymore, that he’d shed his father’s name nearly a decade ago. But he brushed it off and raised the phone to his ear. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Hey, Lex.”

“About time I got a hold of you.”

Something about her tone grated his nerves. His hackles rose, and just like that, instead of annoyed and bored, he snapped into annoyed and defensive. “What do you want?”

Her eye roll was almost audible. “Nice to hear your voice, too.”

He sighed. Took a deep breath. It wasn’t her fault she sounded like their mother and talked like their father—all clipped sentences, all too fast. Even as children, it was like they hadn’t spoken the same language sometimes. And somewhere along the way, they’d lost the dictionary.

“Sorry,” he said, scrubbing a hand over his face. “How are you?”

“Same as usual. Busy.” She was always busy. “You?”

“About the same as usual, too.”

She made a huffed sound that got across exactly what she thought about that. “I’m sure bumming around Europe is terribly taxing.”

She had no idea. He dropped his hand and rapped his fingers against the wall. “Listen, I don’t mean to be a dick, but seriously. We both know this isn’t a social call.”

“It could be.”

“It isn’t.” It hadn’t been. Not since he’d turned his back on the mess their father had left for them, the mess his father had told him was his destiny. Not since he’d walked away.

She hesitated for a second. And then dropped all pretenses. “You still haven’t gotten back to Thomas about the new board. He’s been trying to get in touch with you for months.”

Ugh. “Try a year.”

“I don’t know what you’re running from—”

Yes, she did. She knew all the pressures, all the expectations, because they’d both been forced to deal with them. She’d emerged from the crucible a workaholic, desperately driven to prove their father wrong about her. While Rylan . . .

He’d worked himself to the bone, rising to the top, just the way their father had demanded. And yet with every floor he rocketed past, the walls had started to close in until he couldn’t breathe. When the bottom had fallen out . . .