Page 33 of Craving Sin

“He’s lucky…your son. Not everyone has that.”

Rian frowns, the lines in his forehead that are somehow already familiar forming when his brows crease. “You didn’t?”

I probably should lie, but I don’t have it in me. My head is a mess, like my whole being is on edge as I try to adjust to this situation I’ve found myself in. “No. My father doesn’t love anyone but himself…but that doesn’t change the fact that he would do anything to find me, to bring me home.” Even if that’s only so he can look like a hero, so he can capitalize on my kidnapping, and what people will think of him when he brings me home.

“I didn’t either,” Rian finally says. “My father was…horrible, if I’m being honest. I won’t let that be the legacy I give my son. He’s a better man than any of us.”

With those final words, Rian turns around, grabbing two plates from the cabinet, just as the scent of burnt bread hits my nose. “I think your toaster is broken,” I say as he pops it manually, and four black pieces jump out.

“How observant of you.”

“Stop being an asshole.” I leap down, grab the bag, and pull more bread out. “You scoop the eggs. I’ll be in charge of the toast this time.”

Rian turns to me, head cocked slightly, emerald eyes holding me tightly. “Okay,” he finally says, and then we finish making breakfast together as though we’re friends, rather than kidnapper and victim…as though Rian doesn’t plan to kill me the second he doesn’t need me anymore.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Rian

We sit down at the table with our plates and each with a glass of orange juice.

Our conversation from just moments ago is fresh in my mind. I’m surprised we had it, surprised he asked questions and seemed interested, but more than that, is the fact that I shared with him.

It’s strange the way I am with Abbott. It makes me think of what Conan said earlier. Do I want to fuck him? Is that what this is? It’s not something I’ve ever thought about doing with a man before. I haven’t been attracted to a man that I’m aware of. I can acknowledge when a guy is attractive in general, and Abbott is…well, he’s so fucking pretty, but that isn’t the same thing as wanting to put my dick in him.

On the flipside, I’ve fucked women since losing Moira. I haven’t been a saint. There’s nothing emotional about it, nothing tender or meaningful. It’s a way to get off, a way to find release for both them and me. We fuck and walk away. The end.

I never talked to them the way I just did with Abbott. Never shared anything about my son. About how terrible a father I’ve been to Cillian and how I hope to make amends.

Maybe because Abbott will die, and my words will die with him. I can share with him because he’ll never be able to tell anyone else, and he won’t be around long to judge me for it.

“Can I at least talk you into taking some ibuprofen?” he asks. “I know you don’t want to take any narcotics, but you should at least be alternating between that and acetaminophen again. We need to keep your pain down.”

I’d like to keep my pain down, but what I don’t understand is why he cares if I’m in pain or not. Most people would want me to suffer, but not Abbott. The pinch in his brow as he looks at me says how honest his concern is. None of this is an act for him. My brain can’t compute, can’t make sense of someone like him giving a shit about someone like me.

Abbott reaches toward me, and on reflex, I pull back sharply.

“Sorry. I just wanted to make sure you don’t feel like you’re running a fever again.”

“I’m fine,” I argue.

“Then it won’t hurt for me to see.” This time, when he reaches, I don’t stop him. His hand is warm against my forehead, then my cheek. I swear I can feel the blood pumping through his body when he touches me—like heat rushes to the tips of his fingers so he can transfer it to me.

He’s warm and alive and…kind. Why is this man so kind?

“You don’t feel warm. I’m getting you some ibuprofen, though.”

I expect an argument to fall from my own lips, but it doesn’t. There’s a bottle on the kitchen counter. Abbott opens it, shaking a couple into his palm before walking back to me.

The question is on the tip of my tongue, one simple word trying to fall free…but I swallow down the why. It is just who he is.

I take the pills, then Abbott sits back down and takes a bite of his eggs.

“You need to eat too. We should make sure you’re getting enough protein. You need to fuel your body. Plus, taking all the pain relievers and antibiotics will be rough on your stomach.”

“Why surgery?” I find myself asking.

“I guess to prove I could,” he replies, while I do as he said and begin eating.