Free Demon's Plaything by Lydia Rowan Page B

him—and the exhaustion he caused—carried on the weight of the word. “What can I say about Ian?”
    She sighed yet again, but he waited, suppressing the urge to rush her or to find Ian and break his hands.
    She tapped the fry she held against the plate and then dropped it in clear disgust.
    “It’s an awful thing to admit, not to mention say out loud, but I almost wish he was addicted to drugs or gambling or whatnot.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “It’s probably stupid, but I always thought if his problem were something I could target, isolate, like drugs, I’d have a fighting chance to help it. I mean, I see how addiction ruins lives, see it every day in fact, but at least that’s something specific. With Ian, it’s almost like fucking up is his addiction, you know what I mean?”
    He huffed. “I think I do.”
    A far-off look came into her eyes, and she looked over as if staring into the past.
    “We are only eleven months apart, spent all our time with our grandmother. We were so close growing up. Donnie and Marie. Michael and Janet. But even when we were kids, there was trouble. Small stuff. Him asking me to help with his homework, which I’d end up just doing myself. Just hanging around with the wrong crowd, going from minor scrape to scrape…”
    “He’s violent?” Demon heard the note of urgency in his voice that hadn’t been there before.
    Shayla’s gaze snapped to his and she shook her head emphatically. “Oh no! Never. I guess instead of ‘scrape’ I should say ‘trouble.’ He made messes and usually ended up alienating people, but he was always well liked and got along with everyone. You’ve met him, seen how good he is with people.”
    Demon thought the guy was a jerkoff and had the very first time he’d seen him, but he reserved his comment.
    “He just…he never wants to work for anything, always looks for the easy path, easy money, easy women, easy life. I don’t think he’s realized how hard it actually is.”
    “Why would he? You won’t let him.”
     
     

Chapter Eight
     
    Shayla felt her jaw slacken at his sharp tone, and she refocused her gaze on him, his jaw set, lips a tight line of disapproval, eyes chips of moss-green ice. It was a startling shift from the easy, carefree vibe she’d grown accustomed—and looked forward—to. For the first time, she felt like she was seeing behind his facade, and while there were hints of his fun-loving self, there was also another dimension, something harder, more complicated, almost dangerous. It was a heady combination, and she felt herself dampening at the sight of the fierce, unyielding man sitting across from her.
    It was almost a farce, Shayla Rodgers, MD, undeniably turned on while sharing fries with some guy who was probably a criminal and discussing her screwup brother’s moral failings. She laughed bitterly, but wouldn’t let his meddling go without a fight.
    “How dare you?”
    “What? How dare I acknowledge what you refuse to?” he asked, his voice remaining light but threaded with iron.
    She glared at him, but his gaze didn’t waver an iota. He was supposed to be fun, a distraction; he was most certainly not supposed to challenge her.
    “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said with a resolve she didn’t feel, not that she’d reveal that to him.
    “So explain, then,” he said as he leaned back, the casual, loose way he held his body at odds with his no-nonsense stare.
    She huffed. “Jesus, how is this my fault? I’m just trying to support my only sibling while my grandmother is dying.” She felt like her eyes were going to pop out of her head. “You know what? I’m done. I’m not even going to further dignify this conversation with a response.”
    She stood and rushed out of the restaurant, an almost identical scenario to the first time they’d been there, though this time rather than being driven by anger, she was driven by fear of her desire for him, fear that she might act on it. And