Page 85 of Vicious Betrayal

"We can't stay here," I continue, shifting my weight. A dull spike of pain shoots through my shoulder, but I ignore it. "The car is wrecked. It won't take them long to sweep these back roads once the storm clears. First thing in the morning, I’m going to find a burner phone and call Declan. We’ll figure out what to do from there."

"Declan?" Her eyes widen with fresh terror. "If he knows what I did⁠—"

"Declan is my boss, and he’s my friend," I say firmly. "He needs to know what’s coming so he can protect our people. I won't hide us from him any longer to protect myself. Or you. I know the full truth now, and I can work with that."

She lowers her eyes, nodding slowly. "Okay."

"Get some sleep," I tell her, nodding toward the small bedroom off the main living space.

She hesitates, standing up slowly. Her legs look weak, her small frame swaying slightly before she catches her balance. "Are you coming?"

I look at her for a long second. The urge to stay on this hard floor and keep space between us pulls at me. But the air in the cabin is freezing, the draft creeping through the floorboards. She's carrying my child. She was in a car crash six hours ago, and I almost bled out. We just fucked. I think we're past me pretending like I need to sleep on the floor.

"Yeah," I say roughly. "I'm coming."

—

The bed is comfortable enough. I lie on my back on the right side, keeping my injured shoulder away from her, while she curls onto her side facing away from me, her back pulled against my chest for warmth. The cabin is pitch black save for the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the bare wooden rafters above us. Her breathing is shallow, hitching every few minutes as if she's crying silently in the dark, though she doesn't make a sound.

My right hand rests on the coarse wool blanket. Slowly, carefully, so I don't disturb her, I slip my fingers into the pocket of my jacket next to the bed and pull out the two rings I took from her in that motel.

I turn the engagement ring over and over between my thumb and forefinger. The metal is cold against my callused skin, the sharp facets of the center stone catching glints of faint light from the window. I remember standing in that quiet, high-end Chicago jewelry store like it was yesterday. I remember the absurd, terrifying flutter in my chest when the jeweler laid the velvet box on the glass counter. For twenty years, I believed that part of life was closed to me. I thought I was meant to be the man who came home to an empty house and slept alone with a gun on the nightstand.

When I bought this ring, I believed she had given me a second chance. I believed God, or whatever twisted fate runs this world, had looked down on a forty-year-old killer and decided to hand him a family and a beautiful young wife, a life with light in it.

You gave me a future, Oksana. That's what I told her when I slipped this stone onto her finger. A bitter, humorless smile touches my lips in the dark.

She hadn't given me a future. She’d been handed a noose by the federal government and ordered to wrap it around my neck. Even now, knowing the threats that forced her hand, knowing she was terrified and desperate to protect our baby... how do I ever look at her without wondering if she's telling me what I want to hear?

I feel her shift beside me, her small hand reaching out tentatively across the mattress. Her fingers brush against the back of my hand, trembling, seeking me out. I don't pull away. But I don't turn my hand over to hold hers, either.

I just close my fingers tightly around the cold diamond ring in my palm, close my eyes, and listen to the rain until exhaustion finally drags me under.

—

By six in the morning, the rain has slowed to a thin, misty drizzle. My shoulder is nothing but stiff, throbbing agony, but the bleeding has stopped. I pull on a dark henley I found in a closet, wincing as the fabric drags over the stitches, and throw a flannel shirt over top.

Oksana is already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed with her arms wrapped around her middle. She looks exhausted with dark purple smudges beneath her eyes, but she stands the second I walk into the room.

"We're heading out," I tell her. "There's a small highway about two miles south. We’ll find a place to get food and figure out our next move."

We walk in silence through the damp woods. The ground is slick with wet pine needles and mud, and twice I have to reach out with my good arm to catch her by the elbow before she slips. She doesn't complain. She keeps her head down, matching my stride as best as she can, her breath puffing in small white clouds in the morning chill. When we hit the two-lane asphalt road, we follow it east until the trees thin out, giving way to a rusted water tower and a cluster of weathered buildings on the outskirts of a forgotten rural town.

We find a diner shortly after, with a couple of mud-splattered pickup trucks parked out front. "Food first," I say, keeping my voice low. "You need to eat."

She nods meekly. "Okay."

We step inside. It's warm, at least. A bell jingles over the door as we enter, and the few locals sitting at the counter barely spare us a glance before returning to their plates. I guide Oksana into a booth in the far back corner, positioning myself so my back is against the wall. An older waitress with graying hair in a messy bun drops two laminated menus on the table moments later. "Morning, folks. Coffee for you?"

"Just water for her," I say smoothly. "Black coffee for me. And two orders of eggs, toast, and bacon."

"Coming right up."

When the waitress walks away, Oksana keeps her eyes fixed on the salt shaker, her fingers nervously picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. "You need to eat all of it," I tell her, my tone leaving no room for argument.

"I will," she whispers.

The food arrives quickly. Oksana forces herself to eat, chewing mechanically and swallowing with obvious effort while I drink the scalding coffee and finish my eggs in three minutes flat. My eyes never stop watching the occasional car that drives past on the wet highway outside.