Page 125 of King of Temptation

Even after his parents and his aunts and uncles had been murdered in cold blood, even when his wife had left him to raise an angry, sullen preteen all on his own, he’d never felt the down-to-the-bone exhaustion plaguing him now.

Where the hell had he gone wrong? His cousins had warned him he was spoiling Rowan. Maybe he should have listened. Maybe he should have been stricter with him. Maybe he should have pushed the importance of family more instead of trying so damn hard to shield Rowan from the realities of their world.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

He was drowning in “maybes” by the time he pushed through the doors of the clinic with a nod for the girl at the front desk. With her customary bright smile, she waved and buzzed him through.

As it had every time he’d visited for the past week, the sight of his son in a hospital bed knocked the air from Murphy’s lungs.

He’s safe. He’s alive and he’s safe.

The repeated mantra helped calm the jumping of Murphy’s nerves as he stepped into the room. Rowan glanced his way, only for a second before turning his attention back to the giant tv hanging in the corner, and the easy dismissal was just another knife to his heart.

“We need to talk.”

“So, talk.”

Despite the exhaustion and the terror of the past few days—or perhaps because of it—irritation pricked at the back of Murphy’s skull. “Turn the tv off.”

“I’m watching it.”

Spoiled fucking brat.

Marching over to the bed, Murphy snatched the remote from his son’s lap and pointed it at the tv. Rowan’s indignant cry rang out when the screen went black.

“What the fuck, Dad?”

Shoving the remote in his back pocket, Murphy crossed his arms and pinned his son with a glare that should have told him how much fucking trouble he was really in, but in reality seemed to have absolutely zero effect. “I told you. We need to talk.”

“About what?”

Jesus, what did he think they needed to talk about? “You betrayed our family, Rowan.”

Eyes rolling toward the ceiling, Rowan flopped back against his pillows. “This shit again? It was just some pictures. I don’t know why everyone’s making a federal fucking case out of it.”

“Because we’re at war and you tried to sell the head of our family out to our enemies. You’re lucky it was just some photos and not any real secrets.”

It was the same argument he’d been making to Killian for a week now. His cousin was usually a reasonable man, but Rowan had crossed a line by including Aria in the photos he’d given the Russians and they all knew it. They still weren’t sure exactly how Rowan had gotten the pictures, though Killian’s friend Braden was knee-deep in an internal investigation of every single member and employee of his club to figure it out.

Rowan snorted, derision dripping from the sound in a way that made Murphy’s teeth clench. “What’s Killian going to do? Send me to sleep with the fishes?”

“That’s not off the table.”

Under other circumstances, he might have felt more guilty for the way his son’s face drained of all color, his eyes wide with the first hints of true fear he’d shown since all this went down. Mostly he’d just been his sullen, mopey self about the whole thing, acting as if he were somehow the wronged party in all his because he’d gotten shot. As though he hadn’t put himself in that situation to begin with.

“He wouldn’t.” Rowan’s voice cracked, giving away how scared he really was. “Killian doesn’t have the balls.”

“I assure you, son, he does. And frankly, if he doesn’t get to you first, it’s only a matter of time before the Russians do.”

“You’re bluffing. I’m family.”

Biting back an exhausted sigh, Murphy met his son’s glare head-on, determined to somehow, someway get through to him how fucking serious the situation was. “You are, and that’s the only reason you aren’t already dead.” Murphy waited a beat for the implication to fully land before continuing. “But luckily for you, Killian is willing to show some restraint, under one condition.”

“What’s that?”

The words stuck in Murphy’s throat. Saying them would make it real, and once it was real, there was no turning back.

“You have to leave.”