CHAPTER FIFTEEN
LIAM
After I left the restaurant, I climbed into my McLaren 765LT and tried to convince myself that I should drive home and meet Celeste there, like we had discussed. But I couldn’t do it. Leaving her in the booth—glowing and flushed and satiated—was hard enough. Leaving her at the hotel was impossible.
I’m not a patient man. Maybe that’s not true. I can be. My work often requires it. Wells certainly attempts to strengthen that muscle in all of us. But when it comes to her, everything feels urgent.Every touch crucial. Every whimper paramount. Every smile and laugh a dire longing to earn.
I crave her. Ache for her. Need those big brown eyes latched on to mine, or nothing feels right. A savage compulsion to claim her, to keep her leashed to me for all eternity, veils my entire thought process now.
Fighting it when she was tucked safely at home, out of sight from the lecherous intent of anyone with eyes—and a cock—was one thing. But tonight, the vision of her in that seductive cherry dress with another man sent me into a tailspin. Once I knew everything between us was mutual, there was no reason to fight it. I’ll handle whatever fallout ensues.
Celeste belongs to me now.
So, I gave her a half hour with the douchebag to appease Grandpa Carver and texted, informing her I was waiting, and she should hurry. I expected a quippy response, but nothing came.
Not after five minutes, which is when I jumped out of the car and hacked into the security camera feed.
After ten minutes and no response, I’m on the asshole’s floor, Rex hot on my heels.
He explains their procedure, and I inform him I’m not fucking waiting another twenty minutes. The judicious man that he is, he brooks no argument as I draw my HK Mark 23 pistol and insert the housekeeper’s key card that I swiped on the way up here.
Before the door is even fully open, it’s evident I’m entering a battlefield. My gut wrenches with awareness as the humid air and plodding drone of running water engulfs me. Stark-white light and steam billow out from a bathroom, so I’m there in a stride.
“Wait, Liam!” Celeste screams, spotting me, hand up in caution as I take in the scene unfolding before me.
Rage boils and blisters and ravages my veins. My bones. Every single organ.
Her cheek is bruised and bloody. Lip cracked. Hair disheveled. Eyes petrified and haunted. “I think I …” she stammers while unplugging the cord of a hairdryer. “I think I killed him.”
She sure as fuck did. My girl is brutal and brilliant. I’m so goddamn proud.
And apocalyptic with fury, but first things first.
“You saved yourself, baby,” I say, noting the way she seems detached, seconds away from going into shock now that I’m here and survival mode is no longer necessary. Her breathing is rapid, labored, so I keep my tone steady, hoping she’ll latch on to the rhythm. “You did so good. So good.”
Knowing Rex is sweeping the rest of the premises, I reholster my gun. Celeste shakes violently as I creep into the bathroom, wading through the several inches of water and stepping around the motherfucker’s body. Unable to help myself, I stomp on his worthless skull, reveling in the crushing bones.
Again. And again.
“Now, he’s dead, Ace.” I splosh through the bathroom, switch off the shower, bathtub faucet, and sinks, twisting the nozzles in their proper direction, and finally square myself to her.
Shrugging out of my jacket, I drape it around her shoulders, but she keeps her arms fastened across her knees and tips herself forward like she’s unwilling to uncoil from her fetal perch, tumbling into my embrace.
“I’ve got you, baby girl. You’re okay.” Cradling her, I continue murmuring soothing praises into her hair and carry her out of the bathroom, directing my attention to Rex. “You’ll accompany Celeste and me back to the house. Dante and Keith will wait for the cleaners. We leave in three minutes.”
He nods and sets to work updating the guys while I pull out my burner phone and dial my contact for the cleaners. York is on retainer. He has no idea who we really are—anonymity in our dealings is a plus to the government wiping us from existence, and we’ve masterminded multiple convoluted rabbit holes should anyone attempt facial recognition or the like. None of that matters to York though. He’s happy to fulfill whatever we throw at him because we’ve set him up for life. And the deranged bastard enjoys what he does.
“Go,” York answers after one ring on our private line.
“NOLA. Wisteria Suites. Junior Presidential. Room twelve-zero-five.”
“How many?” Bodies?
“One.”
“Requirements?” Specifics of cleanup needed?
“Flooding.”
“Plotting?” Elaborate cover needed?
“Yes,” I respond, with a fleshed-out plan in mind. “He has a helicopter at the local hangar.”
I conducted an extensive investigation into all things Scott Filmore. Not thorough enough since he appeared squeaky clean—other than his penchant for easy women and an old cocaine habit—but he’s actually a motherfucking woman beater. That research will serve our damage control well though.
“Fine. Send details. Arrival will be in twenty-seven minutes. Diversion?”
“Handled,” I reply, hanging up and dialing Wells’s Murphy line—like Murphy’s law, whatever can go wrong will go wrong. It’s only used for that.
While it rings, I curl Celeste closer. She winces, alerting me to the fact that she’s hurt somewhere other than her face, but Wells picks up before I can check her.
“Yeah?”
“Cut internet and security cameras to Wisteria Suites and flicker the electricity in two minutes,” I state.
The storm provides an easy excuse for electricity issues, and having it come on and off causes far more anxiety and upheaval than merely cutting it. People adjust to constants after a few minutes. I’m counting on chaos until the cleaners arrive. They’ll handle it from there.
“Duration?” he asks.
“Keep cameras off for the night. Restore internet and electricity in forty-five.”
That’s plenty of time for them to set up shop here while the hotel is preoccupied in the frenzy. Restored electricity is necessary to adequately dry the flooded bathroom. If York needs further assistance, he’ll contact me.
“Done for the whole block,” Wells affirms. “I’ll intercept any call-ins.”
The Cabrini family, which Wells heads, handles data mining and power companies for KORT. It’s a handy domain to control.
Rex is awaiting my direction when I disconnect. Celeste’s purse, a box of cigars, and his gun are in his hands while guilt cloaks his entire demeanor. I’ll deal with his culpability once we reach the car.
Drawing my pistol again, I kick my chin toward the door to guide him that way. “Time to go.”
We halt our trek until the first flicker of electricity, check the hallway, usher Keith inside the room, and station Dante outside the door before heading for the blacked-out stairwell. With Celeste secure in my arms, I use the flashlight on the front of my gun to guide us down the stairwell and out a back exit into the blustery downpour, doing my best to shield her from the pelting rain.
When we reach the McLaren, I toss the keys to Rex, swing up the passenger door, and lower into the seat with Celeste, strapping the buckle over us both. It’s a two-seater, not that I would’ve been able to release my hold on her even if there was a back seat.
Rex accelerates toward the house, and Celeste nestles into me, faint winces and whines escaping her. I’d like nothing more than to simply provide comfort for her, but there are too many tasks that need conquered first. I use my phone to type out my extensive plotting instructions for York, sign in to Scott Filmore’s email account—not the first time—study his previous correspondences with Celeste’s grandfather, and formulate an appreciative response for Filmore to send to Mr. Carver later this evening.
We’re less than five minutes out, so I confront Rex, who has followed my lead since I arrived on that fucker’s floor, but that’s only half of what needs tackled. “Why doesn’t she wear a goddamn call bracelet if she’s allowed to just disappear into any asshole’s room for a whole fucking hour?”
Although my voice is controlled, it’s icy, and Celeste tenses in my arms. I can’t rein this in though.
“Frank never believed it was warranted, especially when the people she visited were vetted.” As if the angry sky objects to the bullshit he’s spewing, thunder crashes with a boom that pauses it. “Celeste values her freedom and pushes back when it’s infringed upon. He felt allotting her as much independence as possible would keep her from …” He can’t seem to find the word. That tends to happen when the argument is shit.
“You’re looking for rebelling, but surviving is what should be there.” My molars grind, fists flex, pulse soars in uncontainable agitation. “Her father knows the dangers. She should’ve had a gun on her or … Jesus fucking Christ!”
Rex says nothing. That’s a smart move because there is nothing he could say that would make me not want to rip his fucking throat out.
“You no longer work for Frank,” I inform him. “The three of you work for me now. Arnold too. Understood?”
His side-eye gaze coasts quickly over Celeste, who’s gripping my shirt like it’s a cord keeping her from free falling, before rising to mine. “Understood. Cee has always been, and always will be, my priority.”
“Good answer,” I grind out through my still-rigid jaw.
Fuck, I need to relax. When I press my lips to Celeste’s forehead, she frees a held breath, which gifts me an ounce of serenity to keep me from blowing up this whole fucking city.
“That response,” I continue, “the fact that my girl here loves you, and the revelation that Frank has given you asinine procedures to follow regarding her safety are the only reasons you are still breathing.”
He must discern how crazed I am because he remains quiet—again—as he veers to the driveway gate, which the guards open immediately.
But the thought of her perched on that countertop—beaten and immersed in steam, quaking in fear, eyes wild—has me making things crystal clear. “You do not answer a single fucking text from Frank or anyone in the Carver family without consulting me first. No one breathes a word of this evening. In fact, no communication with anyone unless I’ve approved it. After the cleanup, I’m taking your phones until we sort this out.”
He scoffs, throwing the car into Park. “Don’t waste your energy fighting us. That will do nothing for the girl in your arms. I’ve been watching over her for years. You aren’t the only one fucking torn up about tonight.” His hand scrubs over his mouth as he stares out the windshield into the stormy night, wipers squeaking a daunting tune. He’s barely holding it together, too, which enhances my respect for him. “I know I can speak for Dante, Keith, and Arnold when I say, Frank may sign our paychecks, but our loyalty is with Celeste. Always. So, point your goddamn rage somewhere useful. We’re already devoted to her.”
Amid my murderous mood, that performs as a mild sedative. “Better, Rex,” I commend him. “You’ll need that backbone with my crew. We aren’t pussies like Frank.”
With that, I carry my girl through the somber drizzle and into the house. She’s completely worn out, but I need to assess what degree of injury we’re dealing with before I let her rest. Wells yanks the front door open before I even ascend onto the porch.
“What the fuck happened?” he snaps, his hand weaving through his hair as he takes her in.
“Let’s get her upstairs first.” I maneuver past him, scaling the steps two at a time until I reach my room, pluck a T-shirt from one of my drawers, and sit with her on my bed.
Wells hastens in behind me, shutting the door, and respectfully steps into the bathroom while I change her. I shuck her heels, dress, and bra off while leaving her black satin panties on, and my teeth clench to stifle my outrage until the shirt is over her head.
“Motherfucker,” I hiss, laying her down and rolling her onto the side that isn’t bruised so we can take a closer look.
That garners Wells’s attention, so he dashes out of the bathroom to my side.
“Fucking Christ,” he spits, dabbing her cut lips and cheek with a cool washcloth while I gauge the wounds on her body.
The contusions extend from her ribs to her hip, spreading to her lower back. The whole area is angry and mottled. She’ll need to see our doctor. My fingers brush over her gently. It doesn’t appear that anything’s broken, but she starts to sob.
Scooching against the headboard, I lift her head onto my lap, stringing my fingers through her hair and taking the washcloth from him to place on her forehead. I think her cries are more from the emotional trauma than the pain, so I just keep reassuring her that she’s okay until I gather the strength to ask the one question I haven’t wanted to consider.
“Did he touch you, baby?”
“Not like that,” she squeaks through a sniff.
And while that is mildly comforting, seeing her like this—my strong girl broken and distraught—is too much. I’ve never felt so helpless.
Eventually, Wells summons me back to the details that need handled. “Filmore did this?” When I nod, he strokes his hand over his chin, and I know the same guilt eating me up is coming for him. “The fuck? We vetted him.”
We failed. I failed her.
I see the deluge of questions he’s about to fling, so I divert us until we can step away. “She needs ice, pain meds, fluids.”
“Ty’s bringing it all up.” He stares at both of us for a split second, but the Chief can’t not be Chief. His features are stony with the need for answers. “Neutralized?”
“She did,” I supply, and his eyes widen.
A slew of follow-up inquiries regarding Celeste taking that prick down are undoubtedly swimming through his head.
“Did she provide details?” he probes.
“I saw enough.” I need to ask her more, but she’s not herself right now, and I was consumed with covering her tracks.
He starts pacing, working through a million scenarios, like he always does. “Does she have any idea what this was about?”
“I haven’t asked yet,” I admit, shuffling to snuggle her closer. “She isn’t—”
“He was mad about you,” Celeste whispers, and my heart sinks into my stomach.
“What?” I gasp, a mountain of regret and terror lodging in my throat.
Her brows knit together, tears sliding down her nose and dripping into her hair. “He knew what we did.”
The whole room pulses around me as I rub my forehead, sick. This is my fucking fault. Jesus. What the hell did I do?
“Liam,” Wells barks. “Stop.”
My eyes flick to his, and he sees it. The way I fucked up. I nearly got her killed because of some obsessive, savage need to claim her.
He shakes his head. “I’m not sure what she’s referring to, but I have an inkling. It does not warrant this reaction.”
“I shouldn’t have—”
“Enough,” he demands. “If Ivy had been on a date with another man after I’d already been intimate with her, I would’ve stormed it too. And it would’ve been ugly. Now, walk me through everything so we can clean this up.”
Before I can even fathom how to articulate the events of this evening, Ty bolts into the room with ice, meds, drinks, and snacks, snarling his own expletives while we mend her. The entire time, I’m inwardly berating myself. I didn’t fucking think. Filmore was supposed to be twelve floors up, so I have no idea how he knew what Celeste and I did at that table. But it doesn’t matter. I couldn’t see past the jealousy.
Switching out a pillow for my lap, I cocoon her in my fluffy comforter, lean down to plant a kiss on her temple, and dust my knuckles across the cheekbone that isn’t swollen, hating to leave her for even a second. But Ty lies down beside her, and she closes her eyes.
“I’ve got her,” he promises, lifting his phone. “I’ll text you if she needs anything.”
Wells and I race to my office, and I fill him in along the way, including the fact that Celeste’s security team is now on our payroll. When I plop down at my computer, I immediately infiltrate the hotel’s system and begin scouring their guests to see if anything stands out. Wells pours us each a scotch and continues to hurl an inquisition my way.
“What did you instruct York to plot?”
“Scott Filmore will check out tonight via the automatic checkout process after sending an email to Mr. Carver, raving about his granddaughter. He’ll also send a heads-up to his friend in Panama City Beach, whom he loves to party with, that he’s on his way since his date wasn’t a willing one-night fuck. The storm is expected to lessen by eleven p.m., so he’ll take his chopper. He’s known for flying himself and never swayed by inclement weather. Unfortunately, he’ll be plummeting into the Gulf of Mexico before midnight, his poor decisions finally catching up with him.”
Wells kinks his lips to the side while swirling his drink. “Nice touch, incorporating drowning.”
“I thought so.” I smirk, but my focus is firmly fixed on the Wisteria Suites guest list and the brief vetting I’m conducting on each person to see if anyone doesn’t belong.
“There’s no way your interaction with Celeste was the cause of such a bold reaction from Filmore. He had too much on the line. Too many people knew she was out with him. He was aware of her security team.”
I bob my head in agreement. “As much as I fucked up, the only conclusion that makes sense is that he had an out, something that freed him to respond with the fury he felt. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have been worth the risk.”
Wells doesn’t say anything for several minutes. He takes a seat, and I keep vetting guests one by one—a tedious process, but one I feel confident will produce a lead. Finally, he swills the remainder of his scotch and sets his stern glower on me.
“You should’ve come to me.” His voice is threaded with irritation and disappointment. It’s the latter that has my eyes rising to his. “You’ve always talked to me, so I didn’t push,” he goes on. “And after that call with Frank … what the hell is going on? You’re obviously fucking her.”
My emotions are too untethered. I can’t deal with his disapproval, so I do what I do best, which is annoy the shit out of him. “Fucked her. Once. Well, one night. Six times.”
“Jesus Christ,” he hisses, much to my delight.
“Six times in seventeen hours, so longer than a night. I’m not superhuman. Although there was also a blow job. So, seven ejac—”
“What the fuck is happening right now, Graves?” he growls. “Do I look like I want a load-blown report? I’m asking if that’s it.”
I can’t keep from laughing. Riling Wells is a beloved pastime, but the disappointment I heard a minute ago still lingers in the air. That’s the one thing I can’t bear from him, so I spell it out. “No. Far from it. I care about her.”
His eyebrows arch with a knowing taunt. “Why didn’t you talk to me then? I told you I wanted to get out in front of this, gave you every opportunity to fill me in. Things have to be set in motion and settled with KORT and—”
“Frank,” I proffer, my stomach knotting at where this is headed.
“I don’t give a fuck about Frank,” he snaps, an exasperated exhale flowing out of him. “Just tell me this, do you want her because she’s wanted by others or because—”
“I can’t conceive a universe in which I wouldn’t want her, whether anyone else understood how perfect she was or not.” There’s no hesitation in that confession because it’s true, and Wells just told me Frank’s opinion didn’t matter.
“Fucking hell, Liam. What the hell were you waiting for?”
I shrug, chugging the untouched drink before me. “I was afraid you’d tell me to walk away, and I couldn’t handle it if you thought I wasn’t—”
“Weren’t what?” he rebuffs. “Tell me you didn’t fucking believe I aligned with Frank’s bullshit view. How much do we have to go through for you to know where we stand? Goddammit.”
“He was Tom’s—”
“Frank is nothing like Tom, for Christ’s sake.” He leaps out of his chair, snagging his candy from his pocket, pacing, and diving in for reds and yellows. “Tom knew that. He was best friends with Frank because of The Order and to keep him close because of Ivy’s friendship with Celeste.”
“I didn’t know that,” I admit.
Tom and I didn’t have the relationship that Wells had with him, but it was impossible not to respect and admire that man. Wells’s eulogy last year said it all. The Chief doesn’t dole praise out lightly, and it was more than praise. It was a pedestal. A deserved one.
Wells ceases his pacing, knuckles blanching on my desk as he stretches toward me. His glossy green eyes are teeming with so many things that it weighs on my chest. “You deserve every bit of happiness we can scrounge up in this fucked-up life. The only one who has never thought that is you.”
“And her whole goddamn family—mother, father, grandfather,” I argue, appreciating his sentiment, but knowing it’s misplaced in this circumstance. “You don’t get it. You’re you. Tom practically arranged your marriage—that’s fucking approval for you. And the thing is, I can’t even be pissed about it. I know who I am and what it means to be with me—in this life. And we all see who she is.”
“Exactly,” he concedes, sifting through his candy again. “Celeste is amazing. I’ve come to love her like family—at first simply because of how good she was to my wife. But she gained my respect separate from that. She’s strong and loyal. Tougher than I realized.” His lips pull up with pride, likely for how impressively she handled herself tonight. “The kind of woman who deserves the very best. And I know Ivy would back me on saying that Celeste could find no better man. Whether or not it works out, you need to know that.”
“Thanks, Chief.” I turn back to the guests I’ve narrowed down, not wanting to even think about the possibility of it not working out. I’m not giving her a choice at this point. Those texts and her willingness to let me finger-fuck her at the restaurant were as good as a contract as far as I’m concerned.
Mine.
“Fuck,” I mutter, digging deeper and reviewing security footage from late afternoon. “This guy. Using an alias. I noticed him in the restaurant with another guy when I was with Celeste. He was also on the other end of the twelfth floor earlier, in the stairwell near Filmore’s previous room.”
“Gage is on his way,” Wells says, standing over my shoulder to study the shady rap sheet I continue to unearth.
Minutes later, Gage tramps in. “Felicity is asleep with Ivy,” he assures Wells before addressing me. “Whatcha got?”
I switch on the wall monitor so he can see what we’re viewing. “This asshole was working with Filmore. Had to be. I’m guessing he fled about the time I showed up to the suite, so he’s got a couple of hours head start. Doesn’t look like he was working alone, so there may be another. I want him brought in alive. I’m conducting the interrogation.”
He grins with a nefarious twinkle. “That’s fucking incentive. I’ll have him ready for you in less than forty-eight hours.”
Gage is perfectly content to secure information on his own, but he loves it when we join him to play.I forward everything I have on the guy to Gage, and he sets on his way, stopping at the door with a sigh and peering back.
“I peeked in on Celeste. I’m glad you’re playing, but I’ll be having my fun with that motherfucker too.”
“The more, the merrier, Big Guy.”
That will be motivation enough for him to save his wrath until he returns—a wrath I’m grateful he shares. A brief text from York and a few from Rex confirm everything is underway, as planned, so I’m out of my chair, anxious to return to my girl, when Wells speaks up.
“You were such a little shit when I met you. A genius but arrogant. Self-centered. Untrusting. Downright spiteful at times.”
“Our evening chitchat is taking a fucked-up turn,” I quip, snatching my Zippo for a few soothing snicks. “And here I was, worried you were getting sentimental, Chief.”
He traipses slowly toward the door where he knows I’m headed but shoves his hands in his pockets as he nears me and pointedly meets my gaze. “You had every right to be. But despite everything, you showed up for the guys again and again. You pushed yourself. You grew.” He pulls his hand from his pocket, dragging it down his face. “Even more so when Ivy came to us. You’ve loved her so well, earning her loyalty the same way you did with us.”
It’s clear fatherhood has gotten to him because this invincible man, who only cops to his softer side concerning his wife, is visibly choked up. “You’re not that narcissistic kid with a chip on his shoulder anymore, Liam. You didn’t deserve your childhood.” He grips the back of my neck, and that lump revives itself in my throat. “You’re a good man—as good as a man in our world can be. I haven’t said it enough, but I’m proud of you.”
No words from Wells could mean more than those four. I’m proud of you. I don’t need to tell him that though. He knows. He knows he’s more than a mentor. He’s my best friend, but also, although there’s only a few years between us, he’s the closest thing to a father figure I’ve ever had.
I swallow, nod, and throw a hitchhiker’s thumb toward my room because that’s all I can muster without puddling into a goddamn pussy. But when I’m a few steps away, he flings one more truth for good measure.
“You’re in love with her. And like someone wise once told me, you’re not alone.” Not the first time he’s used that. He didn’t respond when I said that to him about Ivy a year and a half ago, but he did finally claim his girl that night.
I swing onto the staircase and murmur, “Good night, Chief,” with a smile.
We both know I’m on my way to do the same—minus the sex until she’s recovered.
Wells must have texted Ty because he’s already out of the bed when I return, offering me a full report.
“The pain meds are working. She’s been resting well.”
“Thanks for taking care of her,” I say. It takes a village for everything in this house.
“Always. She’s one of us now, right?” His question holds far more than an inquiry regarding simple acceptance.
“Absolutely. One of us,” I confirm, and he beams ear to ear, patting my chest on his way out the door.
I make quick work of washing up so Celeste doesn’t wake up alone. When I crawl into bed beside her in a pair of boxers, it seems my timing is perfect.
“Wells was right,” she whispers, whiskey eyes waltzing all over my face.
“About?” I ask, sweeping her hair back from her forehead.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
Knowing someone was working with Filmore, I get that, but I still failed her. I left her. Before I can protest, she drives her point home in an unexpected way.
“I wanted … I bought that dress for you. The candy-apple color.” She’s so shy, so vulnerable right now. Maybe it was being attacked, or maybe she senses the shift between us. Things are most definitely going to change, but since she’s broaching a lighter subject, I go with that.
“Like you taste.” I kiss her nose, fingers scratching at the nape of her neck as she pins her lips and nods. Those cuts and bruises are glaring at me though. I need to make her a promise. “I’m going to end every single person who had anything to do with this.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t need you to do that.”
“Maybe not, Ace. But I need to do it.” I’m not sure she understands who’s holding her, but sugarcoating it won’t serve either of us. “I’ll figure this out, and no one involved will be left breathing.”
She rolls onto her back, her gaze floating to the ceiling. “My mother said a life with you would be full of inescapable pain, that death surrounds you guys. But it was the person they’d set me up with that hurt me.”
I contemplate that for a minute, nauseated that she was a target for any reason. Tonight would be an excellent excuse to blow off her mother’s insight, but I can’t. “She’s not wrong.”
Her head snaps to me. “What?”
“This life …” I snake myself around her, careful to avoid her sore areas while pressing kisses to anywhere I can reach—ear, neck, jaw, shoulder, collarbone—my eyes flitting to hers with every peck, lick, and nip. “I can’t promise you a traditional fairy tale, baby. Ivy calls it a crimson-stained fantasy. There’s always threats and danger and the question of how many tomorrows we’ll have. We’ve all accepted it because we have each other, and today is worth it. This is who we are.”
She scoffs. “And I’m not?”
I hover over her, our breaths mingling into one. “You’re every bit ours. Mine. But I … you should know the validity of what your mother claims. Death has already touched you tonight, and it won’t be the last time.”
I’ll devote my life to protecting her, like we all have with Ivy. But we always know each day is a gift. Every outing is a risk. There are no guarantees, no matter how good we are. And Celeste has some precarious obstacles in store, ones I can’t prevent from rolling into motion. KORT doesn’t mess around.
Her cheeks flush, jaw clamps tight, voice quavers. “Why are you telling me this? So you can break my heart when I finally give it to you? Push me away now?”
Finally give it to you. I’ll be hanging on to that.
“Fuck no, Ace.” I cradle her face so she can’t avoid looking at me. “So you understand who you’re in bed with. There’s no going back now. This is a done deal. But you’re strong enough to handle the truth, no matter how hard it is to hear.”
Her frosty features melt before my eyes. “No one’s ever believed that. My father doesn’t think I’m equipped to handle his business. My parents, grandparents—they all coddle me, glossing over anything ugly. You’ve never done that.”
“And I won’t.” Unfortunately, there’s still a lot I can’t divulge, but I’ll share everything I can with her, starting with a hope that sprouted weeks ago. “I want you to fall in love with the sunrise.” With me.
She smiles. It’s the first one she’s given me since the restaurant, and it has that flirty edge I find so enticing. She’s so unbelievably beautiful.
Her fingers skim over my dark angel, tracing the feathery wings. “That’s random, Graves. I have no idea what you’re blathering about.”
“The night by the pool,” I start, kissing the corner of her smile that isn’t sore, “you said your favorite time of day was when the sun dipped beneath the horizon because it reminded you that goodbyes are inevitable. They are, and it’s important to remember that.”
That line of thinking only leads to defeat though, and I never want her to feel defeated again. I saw it in her eyes earlier. Her haunted leer will stay with me for the rest of my life. No matter how divine our moments are, we’ll still travel to Hell, but there are ways to heed the power of the flames rather than succumb to them.
I flatten my hand over hers, resting them both against my chest. “But I want you to love the sunrise.”
She shimmies closer to me, her gaze meandering over our joined hands, my tattoos, and back to my face, stilling there as though she’s transfixed, suspended in a momentary protective dome with me. “Why the sunrise?”
“Because I’ll always show up, Ace. No matter how dark it gets, I’ll always fucking show up. That’s our fairy tale.”
“That’s enough,” she rasps against my lips.
It has to be.Hold on to that belief, baby.