Chapter 18 | Kate
EIGHTEEN | KATE
I’ve never experienced lingering glances. The kind of tension that’s thick and uncuttable, somehow connecting two people even when they don’t understand why.
I’ve barely seen Preston the last few days. I tell myself he’s not avoiding me because of whatever cracked between us, and that it's the fact he’s been calling emergency meetings and plotting with his father since the attack in Virginia. But it doesn’t feel like the truth.
Something snapped and left a mark on us both the moment I asked him to kiss me.
His father’s words to me on that bench about Preston losing his mother and sister to something sinister dissolved so many of the things I’ve judged him for.
When his fist snatched my throat and squeezed, I saw the pain stirring in his dark eyes. The hurt. The life of a man who was born into this world but was robbed of the only things that made it beautiful.
Maybe it was my survival mode, wanting to distract him from the demons infecting his head so he wouldn’t choke me to death. However, I can’t ignore the fact that a part of me wanted his mouth on mine. To steal away some of that pain and give him relief, even if it was just for a fleeting moment.
Stupid? Probably.
But he didn’t do it. The mixture of relief and sting of rejection has been battling in my head ever since.
It’s been a few days since they returned from the attack.
Two men died in surgery, and another was lost to an infection that was too brutal to fix.
Imogen did all she could, but I recognize the way she sees it as failure in the way she’s carried herself since those alarms went off.
Exhaustion lines and dark circles are her companions, but it doesn’t stop her from keeping up with check-ins and administering more treatments and drugs to survivors as they need, giving them more attention and care than I’ve ever witnessed.
To her, it's personal.
Which is why it’s been so easy to spend my days alongside her and the team I was tossed into.
It’s nice to know my time and talents are finally making a significant difference.
It didn’t feel like that when I was working at Lachlan Park.
Strangely, it’s almost like a gift in itself.
I may be trapped, but I’ve been able to rediscover something I’m passionate about and handle lives with the delicate care they deserve.
Imogen said the Megalley Syndicate is a mob bound by blood.
A family.
I see and feel this in every interaction, having worked tirelessly beside her to fill my time and distract myself from the flicker of worry in my chest that is concerned about Preston.
It’s silly to think that something switched so fast that I’m seeing him through a different lens.
I can’t help but sense that maybe he’s feeling the same about me.
Remember when I mentioned those lingering glances?
When I’m leaving dinner, he’s going to get dinner.
When I’m taking a walk outside, he stands in that same window watching me from the third floor.
When I’m outside on the balcony before I go to bed, he’s sitting in that chair a few stories up, where I can see him, and he can see me at an angle.
It's unnerving and thrilling at the same time.
The estate is big, but it’s as if we orbit each other.
Or he’s using the tracking device to his advantage and avoiding me.
I lift the glass of red wine to my lips, taking a sip while my feet sway back and forth in the water from the edge of the pool I’m perched on.
The afternoon sun glides through the pool room windows, spilling across the floor and into the water.
Ripples I’m creating with my feet span out across the surface, sparking where the sun touches.
Marble pillars extend to the ceiling, accompanied by skylights and high beams that stretch from one side of the room to the other.
There’s a waterfall at the end that dribbles into the pool, on either side of which two giant palms stretch out their greenery and disappear into the rafters.
The sound of a door clicking shut over the whirr of water snags my attention. My pulse jumps in response, my eyes darting to the door.
Carter stops when he notices me, a towel draped over his shoulder and bare chest. His black swim shorts hang low on his hips, where his defined V-line disappears below the hem. “Oh. I didn’t think anyone would be in here.”
I frown. I haven’t talked to him since he guarded me on my first night here.
It’s hard to push past the awkwardness that hangs in the air.
But I also can’t ignore my relief that he was one of the few who got out of Virginia unscathed a few days ago.
Preston was worried sick about him and nearly avoided medical attention altogether.
He pretty much burst out of the room the second the stitches were done to check on Carter.
Tossing a leg onto the ledge, I push myself up, pausing when he says, “I didn’t mean you needed to leave.”
I settle back down, gliding my foot back into the water as he walks to the nearest lounge chair and tosses his towel down before padding to the deep end and diving in.
He disappears for a moment, his splash reverberating off the walls before he reappears in the shallower end.
Standing, he glides his hands over his wet, jet-black hair to smooth it back.
Water droplets cascade down the hard planes and divots in his abdomen, drawing my eyes to his tattoos.
The one that holds my attention is a giant octopus on his upper chest. Its tentacles drape down his arm, across his defined torso, and over his shoulder.
It’s a work of art, and I can’t help but stare at it.
Maybe a little too long when he cuts through my distracted state. “You’re not swimming?”
Probably a good thing I’m not, considering there are only skimpy bikinis in my closet.
I wonder if Preston selected those.
I’d prefer not to give Carter an eyeful of the strokes and blemishes decorating my stomach. He would ask questions. I try not to show them if I can help it.
Someday I’ll wear them with pride. The marks of a survivor. Not a runner.
That day is not today.
“I was looking around and found myself in here. It’s peaceful.” I take another sip of my wine.
His tongue darts out, swiping the water off his lips. “Yeah, I like coming in here when I need to think.” He peers around, something unspoken in his eyes. “It’s one of my favorite places on the estate.”
“Have you been here long?”
“What’s your definition of long?”
I shrug.
He wades through the water toward me, his hard body gliding through like a predator. “The Megalley Syndicate has been my family, this has been my home, for the last twelve years.”
My eyes lock onto his. “You say family like this was the one you were born into.”
I know he wasn’t, but I say it because I’m being nosy. Digging for more information about this mob as if it can reveal a complexity that extends beyond their criminal activities. They are still human. They have blood running through their veins, even if they drain others.
The world may be as beautiful as it is dark, but there are various hues of gray blended through, too.
I’m just not sure what shade they are.
Luckily for me, Carter entertains my question. “I wasn’t. But blood means nothing. Family isn’t a physical tie, it’s a feeling.”
Setting my wine glass down next to me, I ponder that. “Preston said you threw yourself on top of him when he was shot.”
The natural light casting shadows across his face moves as his jaw flexes. “Yeah. Well, he shouldn’t have been fucking shot to begin with. I should’ve reacted sooner. That bullet should’ve been mine.”
My brows furrow. “You would’ve taken a bullet for him?”
His stern gaze makes me think I’m pressing too hard, but my eye contact doesn’t falter. It takes a few heartbeats, but he responds. “Yes—and it's not just because it's my job. He’s my family, and I’d do anything for him and Arden, even if it means putting my life at risk.”
I brace my elbows on my knees, leaning over them, hoping he’ll elaborate more about his past. Unlike Preston and Arden, Carter has no Irish dialect in his tone, which I find interesting. “So, you don’t have any blood relatives?”
He leans back, floating on the water. “It’s complicated.”
I stare at him until he sighs, fed up with my steadfast attention ruining his peace, and sits back up. “Questions can put you in danger around here.”
“I’m in danger anyway. It doesn’t make a difference,” I mumble honestly.
Slits appear in his eyes, but then they soften after a moment. “I was a drug addict. Lived on the streets in Boston for a year before Arden found me.”
That catches me off guard.
My chest stills. “Arden found you?”
When I think he won't say anything else, he swims closer, bracing his wet, massive hands beside me on the ledge to hold himself there.
I listen intently.
“I was staying in an alley near one of their clubs when I walked past in the middle of the night and saw a few men trying to take advantage of one of the bartenders outside the service entrance.” He rolls his lips, a look of disgust pulling up his lip.
“One of the men was holding her body against his chest with a gun to her head, while the other had his hand down her shorts. I thought I was hallucinating. I might have been tweaking at the time, but somehow, I managed to pull myself together enough to register what I was seeing. I was able to wrestle the gun out of the hands of the one, and a few seconds later, their bodies were lifeless on the concrete. Arden and his men heard the shots from inside and found me with the girl. The next thing I knew, I was on their plane, and they had brought me here.” He glances around the space before finding my face again.
“Arden gave me a home. Helped me get clean because he saw more than just my addiction. He gave me a purpose.”
I blow out a raspberry. “And your real family?”
“They cut ties when I started using. I don’t blame them. It wasn’t until I got clean and something happened,” the column of his throat moves, “that I realized how important family is. I reached out and started mending what was broken.”
I hook onto something he said. I tread carefully. “You said you’ve been here twelve years. Was it Preston’s mom and sister’s deaths that brought on that realization?”
His eyes slice to mine, something ominous rousing there. A hurricane that’s threatening to destroy anything in its path. For a moment, I think it might be me, but then he blinks, and sadness replaces it, combined with something else I can’t quite place.
Determination maybe?
But that doesn’t seem right.
He pushes off the side, swimming away from me. “You’ve been busy. Knowing Preston, I doubt he’s the one who told you that.”
I pick up my wine glass, staring at the contents as I swirl it, the red liquid gliding up the edges of the glass like spilled blood. “What happened to them? His mom and his sister?” I mutter.
His raspy chuckle has my head tilting upward to find him scrutinizing me. “It’s not my past, so it’s not my story to tell.”
If anyone should understand that, it should be me. But I can’t help the little fireball of interest that scorches my chest, wanting to dive deeper into the man whose callouses run deeper than his hands.
I ask a different question. “Did you know them?”
Carter drags his wet hands over his face from where he stands in the center of the pool. When his attention finds me again, he groans. “If she were here, you two would get along. Both of you are stubborn in your own ways.”
The moment my mouth opens to ask who he’s talking about, the door to the pool opens. Both Carter and I gaze at Preston, standing shirtless in the doorway.
His hardened, suspicious look bounces between us. “Did I miss something?”
Avoiding his eyes, I chug the rest of my wine in one gulp as Carter swims to the other side of the pool.
Preston’s eyes feel like they're attached to every inch of my body. They are solid. Deadly. Untrusting, though something snapped between us in the medical center that day. He still doesn’t trust me, but something he said that day ferments in my gut, turning sour.
“I fucking know you’re working for that bastard. The one who has destroyed everything in my life.”
It registers now.
Someone took his mom and his sister from him.
Sure, this is the world he was born into and destined to rule, but after my conversation with Arden in the garden, I caught onto the hint that Preston wasn’t always this cruel and unforgiving.
Maybe he was never entirely soft, but there’s a chance he’s far different now than he was then.
Back when the good parts, the best parts, of his life were intact.
I always thought evil was ingrained in someone’s DNA—woven into their very being.
But now, as I stare into those dark bourbon eyes, I’m reminded that monsters can be made, too.