Page 35 of Craving Sin

Abbott turns away, but I see the pain in his eyes before he does, the years of hurt that build up when the person you love isn’t who they were supposed to be. When they didn’t love you the way they were supposed to. I recognize the look because it’s the same one my son has when he looks at me.

“College,” I allow myself to say. “Cillian is at college. It’s where he met Ollie, who is going to be a lawyer one day, if you can believe that. He’s a smart kid—good head on his shoulders. And he loves my son. They’ll be good to each other.”

“Then I’m glad they have each other.”

“Me too,” I admit. I just hope Cillian never loses him. The pain of that never goes away.

“How does that work? If they last—”

“They’ll last,” I cut in. Cillian is like me in that way. Once he knows, he knows, and there is no changing that. There’s no falling out of love or even wanting someone else. Many of the men I know have their wives and fuck others on the side. I could never have done that. Not only would Moira have literally chopped my dick off, but from the second I saw her, I never wanted anyone but her.

“Okay, well then, how will that work? Him a lawyer, and you, doing the things you do.”

I don’t mention the fact that my son does them as well. That’s none of Abbott’s business. “We’ll find a way. They’re determined, and like I said, there’s nothing I won’t do to make sure my son is happy.”

“That is…very noble of you.” He picks up his fork again. “You should finish eating.”

I don’t feel hungry, but I think he’s right. I need to fuel my body, so I do as he says and eat most of my eggs and toast.

“I’m not sure anyone has called me noble before.”

“I guess you caught me on a good day.”

Abbott finishes before me, but waits until I’m done, then takes both of our plates into the kitchen. He rinses them off, then starts washing the pan, and I find myself watching him—studying the flex of his muscles when he moves and how he sometimes reaches up and tugs on his earlobe in a nervous gesture or like it’s a comfort to him.

“Are you feeling okay?” He turns off the water when he’s finished.

“You ask that a lot.”

“It’s my job.”

I shrug. “I suppose it is, and yes, I am.”

“Thank you…for breakfast.”

I almost call him on his bullshit line of appreciation, but I realize he means it. Abbott is actually thanking me. He’s so…not what I’m used to. Part of me wants to tell him he should tell me to fuck off, and never stop trying to escape. That the first opportunity he gets, he should try to kill me before I kill him, but I also can’t die. Not yet. Not before everything is the way it should be between Cillian and me.

“You think I’m weak,” he says in this soft, but steady voice.

“What makes you think that?” I don’t. Maybe I should. Maybe his thanking me would be seen as a sign of weakness to some people, but not to me.

“I see it on your face. You think because I don’t treat you the way you treat me or the way your friend treated me that I’m weak. I’m not, Rian, and fuck you for believing that.”

Abbott is breathing heavily. My hand shakes, but I make a fist, trying to make it stop—or at least, make it less noticeable.

I stand up, walk over to him, and don’t stop until I’m right in front of him. Abbott doesn’t back down, doesn’t look away, doesn’t even show the slightest bit of fear as our gazes meet. And when the tingle starts at my nape, it doesn’t come as a surprise. Still confusing, yes, and even more unwanted, but it’s there, and I expected it. And there’s nothing I can do about it.

“I don’t think you’re weak,” I tell him. “You’re honest, kind, and most of all, brave. If we had met under different circumstances…” I don’t finish the sentence because I don’t have the words to. What would have happened if we’d met under different circumstances? Would we have become friends? Probably not. It’s not as if we have anything in common. I don’t have friends who aren’t in my family. Would we have fucked? Maybe, but that wouldn’t have gone anywhere. He would be alive, though, and he wouldn’t know this side of me. I would be the guy he met, and maybe hooked up with, instead of the man who changed the course of his life.

I would much rather be that to him, would much rather have gotten this strange and consuming…fascination? Obsession? Out of my system in a way that didn’t include kidnapping and murder.

“If we had met under different circumstances, then what?” he asks, a breathlessness to his voice that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But you’re a good man. Better than I could ever be, and you don’t deserve this.”

“Then don’t do it,” he pleads. “You don’t have to do this, Rian. I don’t think you want to do this. That man last night. He wanted to kill me. You don’t. You will, but you don’t want to.”

“What makes you think that?” He’s right, of course, but I need to know why he thinks it—what he sees in me that shows him that truth.