Page 70 of Vicious Betrayal

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I walk down the stairs slowly, one step at a time, listening to the absolute silence of the house. In the kitchen, the grey afternoon light is dying against the windows, casting long shadows across the floorboards. I don't turn on the lights. I walk over to the small cabinet beside the pantry, pull out an unopened bottle of Jameson, crack the seal, and pour three fingers into a glass.

I lean against the edge of the island, staring at the dark screen of her phone lying next to the empty tote bag, and throw the whiskey down my throat. The alcohol burns like it's hitting an open wound, but it does nothing to touch the cold in my chest.

You fucking fool.

The rage hits me then. It's not even at her or the feds, but at myself. A violent, suffocating self-loathing that rises up from my gut and fills my mouth with a bitter taste. I set the glass down on the counter and press both palms against the edge of the laminate, bowing my head.

I'm forty years old. I've spent twenty years working for men like Lachlan Gallagher and Declan Murphy. I've survived the feds, street wars, rival crews, shootouts, bullet wounds, knife wounds, every goddamn thing I can think of. And now I let myself be brought down by a twenty-year-old girl in a short dress who told me I was handsome.

I wanted it so badly I blinded myself.

I wanted to believe that someone looked at a scarred, violent bastard like me and saw someone worth loving. I wanted to believe that the universe was giving me a second chance, that I could have the wife, the house, the nursery, mornings at the diner and long rides on my motorcycle, that I could have a normal life while keeping the one I've built all these years.

But it was never real.

Every touch. Every breathless gasp against my mouth in the hallway of my house. Every time she looked up at me with those wide blue eyes and let me hold her like she was the most precious thing on earth. Every promise. Everything I believed she gave me.

It was all an assignment. And I don't even fucking know why, yet—what they offered her to make her walk into a lion's den and spread her legs.

I wonder if she got pregnant on purpose, to trap me into marriage and give her better access, or if that really was an accident. My teeth grind together as I wonder what her plans for our baby really were. If she was ever going to keep it.

Through the heavy floorboards, I can hear the faint, muffled sound of her moving upstairs. A bedspring creaking. The soft, rhythmic hitching of her weeping.

I have days to figure out what the fuck to do before I have to answer to Declan for all of this. And Oksana is the most likely casualty.

I close my eyes, the darkness closing in around me.

I have to choose. I have to decide whether to give Declan the traitor who tried to destroy him, or protect the woman who shattered my heart into dust—and either way I turn, the life I thought I was building is already dead.

18

CORMAC

The house stays quiet for a while. I drink another few fingers of Jameson. Nothing moves except the rain dripping from the eaves. Upstairs has gone silent.

I check my watch a little after nine. She hasn't eaten since we left Greece, and she needs to. She's still pregnant with my child, no matter what I feel about all of this.

I push back from the table, the chair legs scraping softly against the pine floor, and go upstairs. My footsteps are deliberate, heavy enough to let her hear me coming so she isn't scared.

A part of me still wants to protect her, even now.

I push the door open. Oksana is sitting on the edge of the queen mattress, her knees pulled tight to her chest, the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her face is dead pale, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed against the pale gold of her lashes, her light blonde hair falling in tangled strands across her cheeks.

When she sees me in the doorway, she doesn't jump. She just looks up, her throat working as she swallows, her fingers knotting into the blanket over her knees.

"You can use the bathroom," I say, keeping my voice level. "Take a shower if you want. There are clean towels under the sink in there. I'll come up to unlock the door when you're finished."

She hesitates, then slowly lowers her bare feet to the cold floorboards. She looks fragile, but when she stands, she holds herself upright, her spine rigid. "Cormac," she starts, her voice cracked and raw from crying. She takes a step toward me, her hands lifting slightly, palms open, desperate. "You have to listen to me. Please. You don't know what happened before—there are things you don't understand, things they said⁠—"

"Don't." The single word drops between us.

She stops three paces away. "I'm not lying to you. I didn't want this⁠—"

" I don't want your excuses." I don't let myself waver. If I let her give me whatever story she's had time to think up, I'll start looking for reasons to believe her. I need to think clearly right now. Otherwise, we're both fucked. "You made your play, and you got caught. Anything else out of your mouth right now is just noise to keep yourself out of trouble."

"It isn't noise!" A fresh sob tears out of her throat, her hands curling into fists against the sides of her dress. "You think I wanted to hurt you? You think this was some fucking game to me?"