“What would you give, Olivia, to have your revenge?” he asked.
“I don’t want revenge.” But honestly…I’d sell my soul for some good luck.
“What did you say?”
I frowned. “I don’t want revenge?”
“No, the other.”
“I don’t recall saying that out loud.”
He leaned closer and practically whispered, “Say it anyway.”
I licked my lips, unable to tear my gaze from his chocolaty one. “I—” I licked my lips again. “I’d sell my soul for good luck.”
“Would you?” He leaned forward on his elbows, interested and eager for my answer.
“Would you?” I countered, shocked by his words and that I’d even contemplate this to begin with. People didn’t sell their souls. I didn’t believe in God, Satan, Hell, or Heaven. When I was little, God hadn’t helped my mother or me when we’d needed him most. I sure as hell didn’t see any help on this horizon.
“I already have. Paid the piper, too.” Blatant honesty and sadness quirked in his slight smile.
Now I sat a little taller. Had this guy been through hell and back? No way could someone fake that look, the one of cold despair. I knew it too well. I had seen it on my mother’s eyes, viewed it in the mirror when I gazed at myself. I had thought Mr. Perfect hot and out of my league, but this…maybe this soft admission put him square in my playing field.