Chapter 18 Shawn
After walking into a place like that, facing Lucian Creed, and Beckett questioning him like he was a witness on the stand, it’s a miracle we’re alive. Especially since he knew exactly who we were.
She’s barely spoken since we loaded our things back into the car and left—at Lucian’s order. Apparently, he respected Beckett’s late husband enough not to kill us but had no interest in letting the two of us remain in his club longer than it took to pack our bags and leave.
Can’t say I’m overly upset about it. I would have gotten us out of there tonight anyway. There was no way I was betting our lives on him not changing his mind about letting us live.
It’s well past midnight, and we’re finally pulling into my drive. We’d had the car pick us up at an upscale hotel where I left my car; that way, there was no tracing the car back to me. It had felt like a good idea then, though right now, it’s feeling pretty unnecessary.
I shut off the engine, but don’t open the door. Instead, I turn toward Beckett. “How are you doing?”
She looks down at her hands, which she has clasped so tightly her knuckles are white.
“My marriage was a lie. My husband was loyal to a criminal and has a daughter who absolutely hates me because he told her I wouldn’t be happy she existed.
” A tear rolls down her cheek. As much as I want to say something to her—anything that might help—I sense she needs me quiet right now.
So quiet is what I give.
“She has his eyes, you know.” She closes her eyes tightly as a tear streams down her cheek. “I didn’t have the chance to tell her that. But she does.” Beckett wipes her tears away and shoves the door open.
I get out, too, and grab our bags as she heads up the steps onto the porch. Silently, I set the bag down and unlock the door, then quickly disarm the security system.
“I need a minute,” she says, offering me a broken-hearted smile.
“Yeah, of course.”
She takes her bag from me and heads down the hall while I stand here watching her go, wishing I could make it all better. I cannot begin to imagine the pain she’s feeling. The brokenness in her heart at all she’s learned over the last eighteen hours since we first stepped foot in that club.
Eighteen hours and her entire life has come crumbling down around her.
Before I know what I’m doing, I drop my bag and take a step closer to her closed door.
She wants space.
Distance.
But does she really? Or does she not know what it feels like to be held through the pain? Is she so used to bottling it all up that she doesn’t know it’s okay to want to have someone to help shoulder the weight of it?
I take another step, recalling how badly I needed comfort after my mom’s diagnosis. Trying to be strong for her nearly broke me, and I imagine it might have been different if I’d had someone to pick up the pieces after I fell apart.
Is that what she needs now?
Another step.
My heart hammers while I continue staring at her door. I could be that for her. The strength when she’s feeling broken. The shoulder to catch her tears.
Without letting myself question it any more than I already am, I close the distance and pause just outside her door, my fist hovering and ready to knock. Everything in me is screaming for me to turn away, but there’s a steady voice breaking through the storm.
Be there for her.
So I knock and wait for her to answer.
A few seconds go by before she’s pulling open the door. On the other side, I see that she’s changed out of her dress and into a pair of leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. The makeup is gone from her face, and her eyes are red and swollen.
When she looks up at me, there’s so much pain in her dark gaze that it hinders my ability to breathe. And then she crumbles, falling forward as the weight of all she’s learned and all she’s been bottling up shatters her.
I take her into my arms and carry her toward the bed, setting her down and settling on top of the blankets beside her—shoes and all. I wrap my arms around her, and she trembles as the crying she’s been holding in comes out in full force.
Her husband—the man she’d vowed to spend her life with—lied to her.
He told his daughter things that should have remained private, and that daughter had used that knowledge to rip open a still-fresh, ten-year-old wound.
I can’t imagine all Beckett is feeling right now, but I do know none of it’s her fault. And there’s no chance I’ll walk away from her unless she shoves me out the door herself.
Dawn comes fast, though the golden light filtering in from the windows creeps across the floor slowly, warming my face. I’ve been awake for a little over an hour, simply holding Beckett as she sleeps.
We’d both fallen asleep in her room, me still dressed in my suit, my shoes still on my feet. My neck aches from where I’ve had it tweaked all night, but I can’t be bothered to care. Because Beckett is sleeping soundly, her head on my chest, her arm banded over my waist.
I’d drifted here and there throughout the night, but for the most part, I stayed awake. Ready to be there for her should she wake in the night and need someone to talk to. I never want this beautiful woman to feel alone. Never again.
But I definitely could use a shower. So, as the light continues to fill the room, I press a kiss to the top of her head and slide off the bed.
Her brow furrows a moment as I leave her, but she nestles back in, so I pull the throw blanket at the end of the bed up and drape it over her before cracking the door behind me.
Once outside, I run both hands over my face and take a moment to breathe. She’d cried well into the night, only falling asleep a few hours ago. There were no words spoken, but I hope my presence brought her at least some comfort.
Only God can heal her broken heart, and I know He will. But man, I wish I could take it from her now.
Shower. Then coffee and breakfast.
I move down the hall toward my room and turn on the shower, pausing a moment to study myself in the mirror. My hair is completely disheveled; the pomade I’d used to style it causing it to stick in all sorts of weird angles.
My eyes are heavy and tired.
But Beckett finally got some sleep, and that’s what matters.
The shower is scalding as I wash, so by the time I get out, my skin is good and red. But I feel refreshed as I dress in a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, then head out into the kitchen to start coffee.
As I pass her room, I peer through the crack, noting that she’s still sleeping soundly. Good. She needs it.
Once the coffee has started, I reach into the refrigerator and pull out a carton of eggs, as well as some cheese and some veggies I’d diced during my meal prep at the beginning of the week.
I’m heating up the pan when the door opens and Beckett comes out, arms wrapped around herself, hair wild, eyes still swollen and red.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her tone soft, still broken.
“Don’t be.” I come around the counter but stop just before I reach her. I want so badly to pull her into my arms, to hold her once more, but since I still have no idea where we stand, I keep the desire to myself.
“I just—it all hit me. Everything I’ve tried to ignore, and I realized—” Her eyes fill again. “I may never know the truth.”
“We’re not giving up,” I tell her quickly. “We’ll find the truth.”
“Will we?” she asks, cocking her head to the side as she studies me. Her bottom lip quivers. “And better yet, do I want to know? Shawn, he wasn’t who I thought he was. Everything I ever thought I knew was wrong.”
“Not everything.” I reach up and cup her face, brushing her tear away with my thumb.
“Oh? What was the truth? Because I can’t see anything that wasn’t built on a lie.”
I cup her other cheek with my hand so I’m cradling her face and gently tipping it up so I can look into her eyes. “Every time he told you he loved you, Beckett, that was the truth.”
Her eyes fill again. “You didn’t even know him. His actions don’t speak of someone in love.”
“There’s no doubt in my mind that he did, Beckett. I know what he did was wrong, but there is no way he held you and wasn’t hopelessly in love.”
As I speak the words, my own confession unexpectedly comes out between the lines. Is that where I’m at?
Helplessly in love with the woman before me?
She shuts her eyes tightly. “I—”
A sharp knock on the front door breaks through the moment, and I pull away, making my way toward the door to look through the peephole. It’s still too early for my mom to drop by.
Which means—fresh anger washes over me when I see the woman standing on the other side, her arms crossed, a frustrated expression on her face. I turn toward Beckett. “It’s Lauren,” I say softly.
Her expression darkens, and she nods. “Let her in.”
“Are you sure?”
She nods again, then takes a deep breath like a fighter prepared to go a few rounds. This time, I won’t let it even get to one. The moment she starts slinging insults, I’ll throw her out of my house without any remorse.
After using my thumb to disengage the lock on the small safe I keep near the door, I reach inside and withdraw a firearm, keeping it in my hand but behind my back.
Paul’s daughter or not—we don’t have proof of that yet—this woman still works for Lucian Creed. And I wouldn’t put it past him to change his mind and send someone after us. I wouldn’t have expected it to be a twenty-two-year-old, but we can’t be too careful.
She knocks again, so I pull the door open.
“It’s cold out here,” she says.
“And it’s going to stay cold unless you check your tone. You’re coming into my house, and you will behave respectfully; otherwise, you’ll leave. Clear?”
A bit of the ice on her expression melts. “Clear.”
I step aside, and she moves into the house. Beckett is still standing in the same spot, expression hard, arms crossed.
“How did you find us?” Beckett demands.
“It wasn’t that hard once I looked him up,” Lauren retorts with a glare in my direction.