Lucian’s gaze hardens. “Because a man doesn’t get to where I am without making enemies,” he replies. “You both need to be careful.”
“You’re not going to kill us?” The question comes out before I can stop myself.
Lucian arches a dark brow. “No, Ms. Wallace. I’m not going to kill you. I am going to caution you against looking into this any further, though. Some truths are not worth your life.” He stands, so we do the same.
Slightly defeated, but also grateful to be alive, I turn toward the door.
“Ms. Wallace?” Lucian says.
I turn around.
“Your husband was an honorable man,” he says. “Nothing can change that.”
Heartfelt words from a hardened criminal.
They’re just like my marriage is feeling right now: meaningless.
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 amiraclewe’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 wasloyal 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 towantto 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 nearlybroke 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.
