57 - Promise #2
He points to the flat screen tv mounted on the wall and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.
I stare at the blank screen expectantly, even more stumped than I was before.
I’m about to give up and go running down the hall after my husband, but then the screen flickers to life. My jaw drops, more tears surfacing.
A paused shot of Theo stares back at me.
I snatch up my phone, fingers darting over the screen.
Me: No, no, no!
Logan: It will help you. Eyes up, vixen.
I glower at the words on the small screen. How the fuck can this do anything but cause me more trauma? I’m disgusted they videoed it!
Me: Turn it off Cox, I fucking mean it!
Logan: Do you trust me?
A frustrated grunt slips from my throat. Fuck.
It’s almost in slow motion when I finally type back.
Me: …yes
Logan: Then I’m hitting play.
There’s a tightness in my throat; my body wrought with anticipation as I wait for the video to start.
And when it does, and his voice echoes through the speakers, undeniably Irish, my heart weeps for the millionth time.
Other than appearing a little grey in the face, he appears unharmed. Facing death will do that to a person.
“Cordelia.” Hearing him say my name cuts like a knife. He quickly backtracks. “DeeDee.” His Adam's apple quivers as he swallows. “It’s no excuse, but organised crime isn’t fun. It comes with expectations, certain requirements to keep a lead on your own sanity.”
For a moment he looks away from the camera. What’s going on? He’s…apologising? I don’t understand. Why was this recorded?
When Dominic returns his gaze, his green eyes are glassy, shining in the light. “Remember that day on the beach, when you wandered too far out to sea? I told you it’d be like quicksand, but you didn’t listen. I’ve always admired that about you–you know your own mind, headstrong and proud.”
A tiny laugh slips from my throat as I recall the memory.
“I came to your rescue, you lost your shoes and I carried you all the way home on my back. A memory I’ll hold close forever.
” He clears his throat. “That was real. Yes, I was ordered to get to know you, to keep tabs on your dad. But it quickly developed into something much deeper than that. And I didn’t need to pretend anymore. Feck. I wanted to be around you.”
He closes his eyes and unleashes a heavy sigh, as if the words are too heavy to speak out loud.
“I wanted everything– including you and your complete lack of coordination at Twister.” He snickers at the memory, and a strangled laugh-come-sob, slips from my own throat too.
“When your parents announced you were moving, I knew it was the end of an era for us. Struggled to come to terms with it. I tried to warn you, but it was too late...the mafia got their claws on you.”
There’s a disgruntled noise followed by “Wrap it up, kid.”
The familiar British drawl of my husband. He’s the one holding the camera.
“I loved you, Dee. I still love you. You’ll always be my best friend. My ride or die. I’m just sorry it had to end so soon. Adieu.”
“You done?” Logan grumbles.
Dominic nods, bowing his head. Everything else happens like a film on fast forward. Logan raises the gun. Clarke yells. The camera pans to the floor. And the gunfire cracks through the air like thunder.
The video ends.
Logan shot him. He shot him at point blank range. There was no torture involved, none of the dark and harrowing scenarios I’d conjured up in my mind’s eye. He. Never. let. him. suffer.
A quiet rap on the door draws my attention from my shaking hands. My husband peers around the edge of the door, gauging my mood. With a nod he nudges it open and sets down two steaming cups on the coffee table. Without a word he perches on the edge of the sofa beside me.
“How you feeling, sweetheart?” His voice is wooden, wary of the various responses he may get.
I look at him. Like really look at him. “You shot him.”
He doesn’t break eye contact for a second, neither does he cower from the intensity of my gaze. “I did.”
My eyes drop to my hands, where my finger and thumb have glued themselves together of their own accord. Logan follows my gaze, slipping his hand around mine to stop me self-harming myself. His skin, warm, grip secure.
“That night, you were covered in blood. At the hospital.”
His other hand slips beneath my chin, gently guiding my gaze to meet his. “The dead still bleed, my love.”
It’s possibly the most romantically grotesque thing he’s ever said to me. My lip’s part, forming an O, quivering as I try to find the right words. “But I thought you needed revenge.”
He inclines his head again. “I did,” he confirms. “But I needed you more. I needed your trust, and I needed to honour my vow to you.” He shrugs nonchalantly, as if his words aren’t absolutely tearing my heart apart in the most poignant way. “I told you early on I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
I blink, staring into his eyes, so blue, so vivid, so absolutely beautiful. My palms find his chest, and I throw him down onto his back, straddling his hips. Hungry eyes trace the muscles beneath his T-shirt. He watches me, his own wide in surprise, breath caught in his throat.
“I fucking love you, Logan Cox.”
I crash my lips against his and kiss him with a passion, wild and raw. He murmurs something cocky against my lips, but I don’t stop for breath. My hands snake under the material of his top, gliding across defined abdominal muscles. So perfect.
So fucking mine.
My husband. My lifeline. My saviour.