Chapter 16
LIAM
“Get the dress off.”
Regan sits against the bathroom vanity, eyes fixed on her own reflection. She must not have realized until right this moment exactly how much of Ethan’s blood got all over her dress.
“It’s ruined,” she says, sounding numb and far away.
I step close and brush her hair aside. I find the zip and tug it once, sliding it down but not opening it. “Did you like it?”
“No… not really. I think my mom picked it out.”
“You look beautiful.”
“Even with blood on me?”
“I actually prefer you this way.”
She doesn’t think I’m funny. She shrugs me off and pushes me back. “I’ll do that.”
I get the shower started and toss a towel over the door. I don’t know what products she needs, what clothes she’ll wear, anything like that. My plans for the night went down the fucking toilet when four masked men appeared and started shooting.
Fucking Ethan…
He was a good man. We’d worked together a few times and played poker in some games against each other. He smoked too much, laughed too loud, but was decent to the core. He would die for the Whelans.
He died protecting my wife.
If Ethan hadn’t been standing right there, armed and prepared, on alert because I was attempting to sneak out, that attack might’ve worked.
They got close… so fucking close… inches away.
“Liam?” I look up sharply. I’m breathing hard, my fingers gripping the handle of the shower door. Regan’s frowning at me. “Privacy?”
“Right.” I peel myself away, trying to keep control, but it’s slipping. What the hell is the matter with me? I’ve been shot at a dozen times in my life. I’ve been stabbed, burned, kicked in the teeth, and nearly strangled with my own belt twice. But this is the first time I’ve reacted like this.
Anger courses through me and I don’t know what to do with it.
“Liam.” Her tone softens. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Take a shower. I’ll toss in clothes.”
“Seriously, are you—“
I walk out of there and shut the door behind me.
What can I tell her?
I’m not fine at all.
I nearly watched a bunch of men murder my wife at our own damn wedding, all because I was too soft to stick around like I was supposed to.
If I hadn’t tried to ditch out early for her, we never would’ve been in a vulnerable position like that.
Thank God Ethan stopped us.
Otherwise…
I can’t even think about what would’ve happened if we had been caught on our way to my car.
I have to pause to steady my hands. They’re shaking too much to undo the buttons of my shirt. Ethan’s blood still stains my suit. I strip it off, dumping it in the corner. I’ll burn that shit later. I drag on fresh clothes, tuck a gun into a holster in my waistband, and stalk out into my apartment.
“Rough night, huh?”
I snarl and draw my gun in one fluid motion. Finn watches placidly. He’s sitting at my kitchen table, a bottle of whisky open at his elbow, two glasses in front of him. He lifts one in a salute.
“Ring the bell next time,” I say and shove the gun away.
“I never worry when it comes to you. Sit down. How’s Regan?”
“Fine. In shock.” I accept the liquor but can’t bring myself to take a chair. Instead, I pace, my energy boiling over. “Did you question the survivor yet?”
Of the four attackers, one was still screaming when the Whelan guards swarmed and took them down. They bundled him into a van and tore off, probably to some black site safe house with a drain in the basement floor and a whole interesting complement of saws and serrated knives.
“We’re working on it.”
“I want a shot at him. I want it right now.” I grip my glass tightly, knuckles going white. “They tried to kill my wife.”
“Not tonight.”
“Finn, they came at me, at my own fucking wedding—“
“Which is why you’re not getting anywhere near the prisoner.”
I glare at him, steadying myself. I’ve never hated Finn before and doubt I ever will—he’s been through more hell than I can even begin to imagine—but fuck, I’m furious with him right now.
“My fucking wedding. Regan’s wedding. You know who it was, don’t you?”
“We have a guess.”
“Let me make it clear then: Max Baranov sent them.”
“That’s one possibility.”
“Possibility? The Baranovs are making their fucking move, Finn. They wanted to shove a wedge between you and the Corrigans. Kill the girl, break the alliance. Imagine how her dad would’ve reacted? You couldn’t even protect his daughter at her own wedding? If they had hurt her—“
“But they didn’t,” Finn says softly, smiling sadly. “You’re angry. I get it. But you can’t storm off and do something stupid. Not tonight.”
“Why the fuck not?!” I slam my drink back and smash the glass down onto the table.
The bottle wobbles. “The Baranovs have been a god damn problem for years, always nipping at our heels like hungry little puppies, and now they’re making a serious move.
You know what they have, don’t you? Regan showed me what her ex took. ”
Finn’s expression sharpens. “You know? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was running it down myself.” I storm over to where I’ve been keeping the dossier in a drawer.
I should’ve brought this straight to Finn, but I didn’t.
I’ve been telling myself that it’s unsubstantiated, likely half true at best, and at worst some kind of psy-op Max is running.
That sick bastard loves to play games. Showing Finn might be exactly what he wanted the whole time.
Now I can’t keep holding it back. I toss the papers down in front of him and slump into a chair, exhausted and so angry it feels like my molars might crack. Finn flips through the pages, squinting, before rubbing a spot between his eyes.
“It’s everything.”
“Near enough at least.”
“Fuck me.”
“That wasn’t the plan for my wedding night.” I refill my glass and lean toward him. “Let me talk to the shooter.”
Finn shakes his head distractedly. “He’s dead. Sorry.”
I throw back another drink, cursing as the alcohol wraps around my belly like a snake. “Then I’m hitting the street. I’ll find some Baranov fuck—“
“No.” Finn stands, tucking the dossier under his arm. “You stay.”
“I can’t sit here. You know that.”
His gaze sharpens. There’s no smile, no charm. This is the Finn that’s always hidden under his big, easygoing, boyish grin. The real Finn.
“I know you’ll do what you have to, and right now, Regan needs you. How’s she going to react when she comes out here and you’re gone? You really want to leave your wife alone after that shit? We can handle this for now. God knows I’ll need you soon, but not tonight.”
I look back at the hallway leading to my bedroom. I can hear the shower water still running.
God, fucking hell, he’s right.
I was going to storm off and abandon her after she witnessed a murder and was nearly killed herself.
Guilt washes over me.
“I want to help,” I say but I already know it’s not happening.
“Then help by taking care of your wife.” Finn comes around and grips my shoulder. “We’ll do the rest for now.”
I don’t meet his gaze. It’s like everything I knew about the world was ripped in half.
Under any other circumstances, barring serious physical injury, I’d be out there right now getting revenge.
How dare the fucking Russians hit a Whelan wedding?
Those piece of shit rats should be ashamed of themselves.
There’s no way they should have the audacity for a hit like that.
Which begs a lot of questions I’m not asking.
But now I don’t want to go stalking through the night with a grudge and a gun.
My place is here, in this apartment, and it’s unnerving. I’ve never been this man before, and I’m not sure I know how.
Finn leaves after a few minutes. I fuss in the kitchen, cleaning up, doing anything to avoid going back into that bedroom. The shower water stops running and I know I should go talk to her, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
What the hell am I going to say?
Sorry you almost got murdered, babe.
God, this is fucking pathetic. How emotionally broken does a man have to be to not know how to comfort his woman?
But it’s true: I have no god damn clue what to say to her.
I cast back in time, trying to remember what it was like for me in those early days, but I can’t recall a time when violence wasn’t a part of my daily life. What do I say to a girl who’s been so damn sheltered all this time?
After a few more minutes, I can’t keep putting it off.
She’s out of the shower, but still in the bedroom.
I have to do what’s right, do my duty as her husband, and fucking check on her.
I run through scenarios in my head: Hey Regan, you all good?
Totally cool over that near murder? Solid?
No issues? Sick, I’ll be out here, goodnight.
I linger with my hand on the doorknob and realize this is the most nervous I’ve been in a long time.
I don’t even get like this before a hit job.
Killing’s easy: aim, pull the trigger, clean up after. Screaming, blood, pain, that’s all familiar.
But a scared wife?
God, this is worse than getting shot at.
I force myself into the room, heart racing, and find Regan sitting on the edge of the bed.
She’s wearing the sweats I left out for her, the sleeves rolled up.
Her hair’s wet and her eyes are fixed on the wall, unmoving, and she doesn’t seem to register I’m there.
I watch her, my mouth open to say something, but I can’t find any words.
Her expression is blank. There’s nothing behind her eyes. Her shoulders are rounded and her fists are clenched between her knees like she’s struggling to hold herself together.
I walk over. Tension tickles down my spine. Carefully, I sit down beside her, afraid that she might break.
“Regan,” I say.
Her eyes snap to mine like she’s surprised I’m there. “Oh, hey, sorry, I didn’t realize—“
I pull her against me. I hug her tight, breathing in the smell of her shampoo, still lingering despite the shower. She doesn’t move, stiff and nonreacting, and I start to think maybe I fucked up already, I did the wrong thing, until she curls into me and starts to cry.
My wife’s tears stain my shirt. They’re warm and I don’t give a damn. I hold her, not saying much of anything, and I realize there’s not much I can tell her to make this feel okay.
She married a stranger. She nearly got murdered. Now she’s trapped in an unfamiliar apartment with an emotionally distant monster as her only comfort.
I don’t have the right words.
But maybe I don’t need them.
I pull her into the bed. I tuck her under the sheets. She whimpers, curling up. I turn off the lights and climb in behind her, wrapping my arms around her body again.
She relaxes into me.
“I’m sorry,” she mutters, but I only hold her tighter.
I don’t know how long we stay like that.
At some point, her body twitches, and I know she’s falling asleep.
I don’t move, afraid that I might wake her, and let my mind wander.
I keep thinking, I don’t know the last time I held a woman like this.
I can’t picture touching someone in a non-sexual way. There’s no warmth in my memories.
And maybe, if this had happened under different circumstances, I might even like it.