Chapter 13
Thirteen
Thorn
I’m a fucking idiot.
And I can’t make myself stop.
I should let River go, let her stay with Brooks and Briar.
Not only would it simplify things from a security perspective, but she clearly wants to go.
I just…
Can’t let her go.
Not yet.
A little more time. A few more stolen moments.
Then I’ll make sure she’s safe and…I’ll set her free.
“What do you think?” Pascal asks, snapping me out of my thoughts and passing me a tablet. On it are several files he’s managed to decrypt.
I scroll through them, skim through the details. “The Lyons aren’t going to like this.”
“No shit,” he mutters. “But the drive Angela left behind had enough on it to seriously cripple their operations.”
But it held nothing on Sergio.
And there’s not nearly enough to take the Lyons out permanently.
I sigh. “It’s good. But it’s not enough.”
He takes the tablet back, mutters, “No shit,” again.
“Attie’s team find anything in the warehouse?” I ask.
“The FBI isn’t keen on sharing at this moment.”
I just lift my eyebrows.
Because Pascal isn’t the type of man to let a simple thing like sharing stop him from getting what he wants, especially when it’s personal.
And this shit with the Lyons went way past that years ago.
Right around the time I—
“What can I do to help?”
“You’re doing it,” he says.
I scowl. “I’m doing jack shit.”
“You’re keeping them busy jumping through hoops—”
“Fending off cyber-attacks is jumping through hoops now?”
My scowl deepens when he nods. “If they’re focused on you then we have a better chance of cutting more of the hydra’s heads.”
Footsteps echo down the hall and I mutter, “The problem is they’re not just focused on me.”
A beat. Then, “Keep it tight. Stay focused on the end goal. And”—his eyes flick toward River as she appears in the living room, Violet held close to her chest—“keep her safe.”
“Hi, Pascal,” she calls softly.
“Hi, River,” he calls back then nods at a duffel bag by the corner. “I hope it’s okay, but I had my wife pack up some of your things.”
“I— You did?”
He nods.
Her eyes fill with tears. “Thank you,” she rasps, blinking rapidly.
I know Pascal feels that immense gratitude over a simple kindness as deeply as I do, but his tone is no-nonsense when he says, “You think of anything we missed then let me know. We can have someone bring them over.”
A breath. “I’m sure it’s great. Thank you.”
Another nod from Pascal before he turns for the elevator.
“Her books,” I blurt.
Pascal freezes, turns back, eyebrows lifted.
“River needs her books,” I tell him. “She’s halfway through the one on her coffee table and has a stack next to her bed she’s going to read next. She needs all of them.”
River jerks. “I’m fine. Really. I don’t—”
“And she has a case with DVDs next to her TV,” I say. “She needs that too.”
Pascal glances at me, nods. “One of the guys will bring them by later.”
“Really, I—”
He leaves before she can finish her protest.
“Thorn,” she says on a sigh when the elevator doors slide closed. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Whether or not you stay here, you’ll still need your things.” I turn, hold her eyes. “You’ll still want to read your books, watch your movies.”
“I can read on my phone, watch movies on your TV.”
“But they’re not your movies. Not your books.”
She stops, stares at me.
I wait for her to argue further.
Instead, her expression goes inscrutable for one long moment. Then she walks over to me, presses her fingertips to my jaw. “Thank you,” she whispers, lifting on tiptoe and bussing her lips over my cheek.
She drops back down onto her heels then smiles up at me. “Can I borrow your phone?”
Feeling that brush of her lips down to my very soul, I take a beat to make sense of her words. Then, making a mental note to buy her a replacement phone, I pull mine out of my pocket, unlock it the screen, and hand it to her.
Something passes through her eyes so quickly I can’t read it clearly.
Maybe it’s mischief. Maybe it’s softness.
Maybe it’s affection.
All I do know is that it’s fucking beautiful.
She hits several buttons on the screen, lifts the phone to her ear and I hear her say, “Pascal?”
I jerk.
“There’s a container of cookies next to the microwave. Can you bring that too?” Her smile is bright. “Thanks!” She hangs up, passes me back my phone. “Thanks, honey,” she murmurs, that bright, amazing smile pointed at me.
And as I’m reeling from that, she picks up the bag of clothes.
Then turns and disappears down the hall.
“Your entire pantry is alphabetized?” she asks, her tone aghast as she surveys the contents.
I glance up from my laptop. “What other way would it be?”
I gave in on the cooking part only because River made a compelling case for it being the best way for her to take her mind of what’s happening.
And maybe also because if she’s in the kitchen then it’s easier to keep an eye on her.
She’s not sneaking off, trying to clean a bathroom or do my laundry.
Ask me how I know she might try that?
I scowl, finish the email and send it off, then go back to watching her move around my kitchen. Liking her in my space. Hell, loving her in it. But seriously, for a woman whose hobbies include reading and watching movies, she sure likes to keep busy.
So…we’ve settled on her cooking—or well, baking.
She holds up a jar like it’s evidence in a criminal investigation. “Having cinnamon next to your cereal just seems inefficient.”
“I’ve never had a problem finding anything.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then River bursts out laughing.
The sound is so fucking beautiful that I lose my train of thought entirely.
“I imagine that’s true enough,” she says through her amusement, shaking her head and setting the cinnamon on the counter then turning back to the concoction she’s creating.
She’s laughing at my expense.
But she’s laughing.
So, I’ll take it.
Hell, I’d reorganize my kitchen a hundred times over in whatever system she wanted if it kept that smile on her face, that laughter in the air.
My phone buzzes and I glance down at the screen.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Does your girlfriend know about your past?
And just like that…the laughter’s gone. The smiles can’t penetrate the darkness. Because my past, my fucking past is right here to remind me of what cannot be.
Clenching my jaw, I barely resist the urge to launch my phone across the room.
If—when—River finds out who I am, what I am, she won’t be laughing, won’t be smiling.
She’ll be running.
From the violence in my blood.
From the monster I am inside.
She should. She fucking should.
“Thorn?” she asks quietly. “Are you okay?”
I force my voice to remain neutral. “Yup. Just a work call I need to take.” I hitch my thumb down the hall. “Be right back.”
Her gaze lingers on mine and it’s gentle. She knows I’m bullshitting her, but she doesn’t call me on my lie. Just smiles and says, “I’ll be right here.”
That’s what I’m afraid of.