Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Leo
Color me shocked that it took so long for someone to realize Thomas was dead. A day and a half his corpse lay there decaying.
I almost felt guilty when I heard it was sweet, little ol’ Tita Agnes who found his body because he wasn’t responding to her texts.
According to the family group chat that Mina never responds to, the police have no suspects and have labeled it a robbery gone wrong, since all his valuables were gone—donated to a charity on the other side of the city, not that they know this, though.
I place my hand on the woman’s bony shoulder, and her sniffling takes a pause long enough to look up at me with confusion.
“My deepest condolences,” I offer, then continue through the church’s courtyard before she can pester me with questions I have no intention of answering.
No, Agnes, you haven’t met me before.
Do I know your son? Well enough to be here.
The last time I attended a funeral, it was for someone in my family, and it was most definitely nothing like this one.
It’s quite literally a full house—good for Thomas, bad for me because I have to spend far too long weaving around the courtyard and the hall attached to the church, trying to find who I’m looking for.
The longer I’m in the building, the hotter it gets. I shrug my coat off and scan the room to confirm the heaters are to blame. My track list doesn’t exactly make me a welcomed member of the house of God.
Families dressed in black mingle about, waiting for the funeral to start. Every once in a while, someone looks at me with curiosity, then continues on with their conversation like I don’t exist. Not hockey fans, I guess.
“Dude, is that Leo Duval from the Serpents?”
I take it back. There’s at least one hockey fan here. I pretend not to notice the group of Chad bros against the wall who couldn’t even change out of their Patagonia vests for a funeral. I killed the guy, and even I had the decency to dress appropriately.
Gritting my teeth, I walk faster. Where the fuck is she? Don’t tell me she’s late. Again, I murdered Thomas, and I arrived with time to spare.
I stop at the entrance to the church and stare up at the cross. In front of the altar is Thomas.
Closed casket. Wise choice.
There’s no discernible scent of burning flesh or smoke rising from me, so I suppose I’m in the clear. I cast my eyes around the room until I spot Thomas’s cause of death.
I guess Mina didn’t burn by stepping in here either.
Christ, her ass shouldn’t look that good at a funeral. The figure-hugging long black dress is a sin in itself. The belt she’s paired her outfit with only accentuates her curves and makes her hips look even more fucking grabbable.
Murder is one thing. Getting a boner in church is arguably worse.
My phone vibrates in my pocket with what I am certain will be a text from Jack, and it kills the southerly blood flow. If it’s not him, it’ll be my agent wanting to talk. Either one is just as horrible in my book.
And— Oh, for fuck’s sake. Really?
She’s stepping out from the side entrance just as I find her. First, she’s been slow to reply to my texts. Then, she’s spent the past few days with her mother and Agnes to prepare for the funeral, as if she’s his fucking wife.
Out of all the reasons I could possibly regret what I did, that is the one that makes me question my choice.
At least I get to watch her ass move as I follow her out of the church. Once I’m outside, it’s like I can finally get air into my lungs. Maybe the big man upstairs is trying to tell me something.
Just to be extra difficult, she enters the room I was in a minute ago. I stalk her through the crowd, passing the finance bros and Agnes, and sidle up next to her as she starts to pour herself a plastic cup of apple juice.
“Allow me.” I take it from her.
Mina gawks up at me, eyes the drink, then frantically scans our surroundings.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she hisses, leaning closer.
I raise a brow. Well, hello to you too.
“Paying my respects and showing my support. For you.” I keep the smug grin off my face. “And watch your language.” I tap my ear as I hand her the drink. “God’s listening.”
She looks at me like I’ve grown another head, tensing when I place my hand on her back to lead her somewhere without prying ears—the physical and omnipresent kind.
“You can’t be here.”
My eyes narrow on her when she steps away from my reach and places more distance than I’d like between us. Is she ashamed of me? Embarrassed? I’m not about to be her dirty fucking secret.
I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her to my side. She’s not getting away from me unless she wants to cause a scene. Her nostrils flare, and she fists her skirt at her side, but her eyes are wide and panicked, rather than hard.
She doesn’t want to be caught with me. That much is fucking clear. It makes my mouth taste like acid that starts to burn my chest as we walk out of the building and toward the gardens.
A stiff breeze brushes her hair across her face. Mina’s quick to tie it back into a low messy bun, then jumps into me when a squealing child comes running out of the bushes and almost barrels her over.
Mina’s inability to school her expression is going to get her into trouble one day, because she’s grimacing at the child like it’s diseased. Fine by me, as long as she’s standing closer.
I pull my coat over her shoulders and motion for her to sit down on the bench. I’m not sure whether her compliance is out of reluctance or worry, but it sure as shit isn’t because she’s happy about it.
Maybe I’m a cunt for not giving her the space she clearly wants, but like hell is she going to get it. I sit right next to her, thigh to thigh, and throw my arm around her so she can’t escape.
And maybe I’m even more of an asshole for pretending that it doesn’t hurt when she still tries to lean away, eyes darting to the small gap between the bushes with a direct view of the people milling around the courtyard.
I run my tongue over my teeth, trying to find the inner strength that I don’t possess to be understanding of her situation. I’m not. I don’t understand why she spent months throwing herself at me and stopped the moment she got what she wanted.
There’s no universe where I’ll accept that she’s changed her mind—not when she was fucking herself on my hockey stick whenever I wasn’t moving. Not when she still sleeps in my clothes and does the little lip bite she’s always done when she’s texting me.
“Why are you here?” There’s that unease in her voice. Her eyes keep darting between me and the gap between the trees.
“I told you.”
The twelve hoops and studs that usually decorate her ears have been reduced to two, her septum piercing is gone, and her tattoos are covered. How painfully respectable.
I hate it.
She’ll spend her entire life cowering and hiding, all because she’s afraid of a woman half a head shorter than her, who has no tangible control over her.
“They’re calling it a home invasion. I .
. . Mom described what they did to Thomas.
” She frowns, but her voice doesn’t hold the level of emotion I’d expect of someone reflecting on the violent fate of a person they know.
“His head was caved in, and he had internal bleeding. Apparently, there was blood everywhere, and several of his ribs were broken.”
It’s detached. She says it like someone telling a fictional story, or reporting on numbers, not like she genuinely cares.
Mina seems more concerned about being caught out here with me than about the brutal murder of the man she’s known since childhood.
She wraps my coat tighter around her. That, I like. I’ll never stop getting a kick out of seeing her in my clothes.
“What sort of person would do something like that?” she adds like an afterthought, something she knows she should say.
“A jealous one. Or is possessive the better word?”
Her full attention swings to me, and she stiffens under my arm. “What do you mean?”
“He should’ve kept to himself,” I answer simply. I don’t want there to be any more secrets between us. “I told you we were having dinner at six.”
There it is. A gasp. Her first genuine reaction to his death.
And me? She’s finally giving me what I want, because she doesn’t look horrified or disgusted. Just shocked.
“No, you—you killed him,” she says just above a whisper, glancing around like she’s making sure no one heard.
I lean closer to make sure she hears every word.
There’s no point beating around the bush.
“I did more than just kill him. He touched you. He’s lucky his hands are only broken and are still attached to his body.
I was going to leave them gift-wrapped for you.
” A long strand of hair has escaped from her bun, and I tuck it behind her ear.
“Take this as your one and only warning of what happens to any man you speak to.”
Now the look of horror comes, but it seems more of a belated emotion. It’s still there, nonetheless, alongside the shock.
Wait a second . . . is she blushing?
“You’re crazy.”
She’s breathless. She’s fucking breathless. Does she like that I killed someone for her?
“Says the person who made two fake accounts, befriended my sister, and broke into my house because she’s obsessed with me.”
Christ, I think she likes that I’m this insane about her.
“I’m not—”
I quirk a brow. She closes her mouth.
“You like crazy.”
Her jaw drops, but she doesn’t deny it. “I never went this far. This—this is illegal.”
“Breaking and entering. Theft. Cyberstalking. General stalking—or harassment, if you will.” I list what she’s done; it’s the same things I did. “Should I continue?”
“But I didn’t get caught.”
She didn’t get . . . “Baby, you are now aware that I knew you made another account before you even messaged me. I’m not the writer here, so correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe that is, by definition, getting caught. You want me as badly as I want you.”
Also, it’s not the best argument for her point. Thus proving that she likes what I did, and this is all for show. Based on the red that’s now definitely flaming her cheeks, I rest my case.
She still doesn’t deny it.
I tug her to her feet. Just then she realizes that people are filing into the church, which distracts her from the fact that I have yet to let go of her hand—and I don’t plan to.
“You being here is insensitive and offensive to the dead.” She knows as well as I do that arguing is futile.
“Seeing as I killed the man, this might be the least bad thing I’ve done. Now, come on. You don’t want to be the last one in.” Because that means attention, and attention means pissing her mom off.
The panic from earlier replaces the shock and horror as she scans the courtyard for someone—I see where her priorities are.
She hurries along beside me, alternating between squeezing my hand for dear life and letting hers go completely limp, as if it might make her look like the innocent party if someone starts pointing fingers.
“Mina,” a voice calls from behind us.
My future demon-in-law.
I don’t need to turn around to confirm it. Mina turning pale is all I need to know.
“Stay put, or I might decide to be honest about how our relationship started,” I mutter before allowing her to release my hand.
Her subtle nod tells me she heard. She slowly turns to face the petite woman pushing mid-fifties.
Christine’s hair is still jet black, styled in a modest clip-back that matches the rest of her pious, self-righteous attitude, which she’s decorated in a black blouse and lace skirt that reaches past her knees.
If looks could kill, Christine would be rolling up two more caskets for me and Mina beside Thomas, and she’d do it with a forced, friendly smile on her face. She drags her eyes up and down me, then does the same to Mina, lingering on the oversized coat on her shoulders, then focuses back on me.
I can feel my girl shaking beside me, and I am this close to throwing her over my shoulder and getting her away from the poisoned vessel that birthed her. Moving closer to her will have to do for now.
“Did you want us to save you a—”
Christine cuts off Mina’s attempt at breaking the tension. “And who is this?” She offers her hand to me, plastering on the fakest smile I’ve ever seen as people walk around us to grab their seats.
I lean over to accept it, placing my arm around Mina’s waist as I do. “Leo. It’s nice to finally meet you, Christine.”
We’ve met before. She just doesn’t know it.
Her eyes twitch when they slide to the spot where I’m touching her daughter. “How do you know Mina?”
“He’s my fr—”
“Boyfriend,” I finish for Mina.
“Your . . .” Christine blinks, seeming to lose herself for a second. I don’t buy her bullshit innocent attitude for two seconds. “Oh. You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend.”
There’s something about the tilt in her voice that sets me on edge.
Mina’s soul practically leaves her body, and she might as well have killed me, too, when a glassy sheen takes over her eyes. I watch, in real time, as she escapes into her mind because she just looks . . . empty.
And it’s my fault.
The magnitude of what Mina was so stressed about since the moment I saw her hits me.
I don’t know who the fuck I’m mad at more—me, for putting her in this situation, or her mother, for a lifetime of psychological abuse. This isn’t the sort of reaction that comes from an off-handed response. This is what happens after years of being worn down little by little.
“I— It’s— I—” Mina struggles. “Um, it’s a recent, uh, development.”
I stand closer to Mina, drawing to my full height, daring her mom to say anything in front of me.
That only seems to stress Mina out more because the full weight of her attention is on her mother, cataloging every minute movement in her face, and she stops breathing altogether when Christine motions toward the church.
“I see.” Her mother nods. “Well, we better go in now. We will talk later. Okay, Mina?”
Mina nods meekly and doesn’t bother pulling away when I thread my fingers with hers. But she doesn’t hold my hand back either.