Now that I’m not high on him, reality comes back in full force.
The guilt is too much. I can’t keep this secret any longer. I have to tell him the truth. Before I knew him, I thought it would be so easy to seduce him, con him into helping me. But now that he’s holding me, close against his skin, there’s no part of me that can hurt him.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
But here I am, falling for him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
DELLA
Wrecked by guilt, I let him sink down to the floor with me. We curl up, backs against the cabinets, and he pours two shots of whiskey. He’s still in his pants and boots, but he gave up his shirt for me. It smells like sweat, like the stockyards. That’s alright. It’s nothing I’m not used to already. And I love the way he smells.
Guilt is a heavy sin.
I take a sip from my glass. It’s alright, not as good as what we’ve got back home, but it puts the fire back in my bones.
“I was thinking,” he says.
“Yeah?”
He’s staring straight ahead at his glass. “I was thinking I’d like to keep seeing you. How do you feel about that?”
The bottom drops out of my stomach.
“Jensen,” I whisper.
He rolls his head to the side. “That’s a yes or a no?”
“I’ve got to tell you something,” I say, fragile, like the husk of my words are all that are left over.
My vision wavers. I have another sip, a bigger one this time. It’s only making me drunker, and I need to keep my wits about me if he throws me out.
I blink hard.
“I need help,” I whisper.
He sits upright, shifting to face me. “What kind of help?”
My lip trembles. “I got a baby, a little boy.”
His eyes flick down. I know he saw the scar from my cesarean. He was just too polite to ask.
“He in trouble?” he asks, voice dropping.
Yes, he’s in danger of growing up under the thumb of the man who destroyed my life. In danger of becoming a monster like Leland someday. And I’m in danger of looking in his eyes and not knowing him.
“His father took him from me, but he’s not in danger,” I push out. “I left him, and he took him from me. I can’t see him unless I go back. He’s a big, powerful person. I can’t win in court against him.”
The strangest expression crosses his face. As soon as it’s there, it’s gone.
“Who’s his father?”
My tongue flicks out, tasting a bit of whiskey on my lip.
“Leland Caudill,” I whisper.
He doesn’t move, not an inch, but his pupils dilate like a bomb bursting. There’s a silence. We’re both tensed. Then, he reaches behind his back, and I surge forward, dropping my glass. It shatters as his hand snaps around my throat, shoving me back against the cabinets.
