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He looks up. “Then sleep, Avery.”
I shake my head. “I’m tired of lying to you.”
There’s no hint in his frozen expression that I’ve shaken him. He doesn’t blink. Those hazel eyes darken just a shade and spear me, stripping me bare where I stand.
Maybe it’s exhaustion, why I suddenly feel so removed from this reality and like I’ve entered into an alternate one where, once I admit the truth, Quinn wraps those strong arms around me and accepts my sins…because when I say it, and the floodgates are unlatched, the confession rushes from me unfiltered.
“Simon wasn’t the UNSUB. He wasn’t my abductor. He was the apprentice to Price Alexander Wells. Wells, who first tortured me in my lab and then locked me in the dungeon of his sailboat and tortured me and tortured me…”
Quinn stands, and I move backward. “Wells orchestrated everything so Simon would take the fall. But that’s not all…” I turn my head, swear, and force my eyes to meet his. “Wells didn’t die from ingesting shellfish toxin. He was murdered. I buried the evidence. I doctored the COD report. To protect—”
“Sadie.” Quinn’s voice is a dark boom rattling through me.
My mouth hangs open. I wasn’t going to reveal her part. I was going to take the full blame. Accept all consequences. I still can. “It was me.”
“No, it wasn’t.” Quinn approaches me slowly, a hunter scenting his prey. His eyes take in every nervous muscle tick. “You said you were tired of lying? Stop now.”
Shit. I dig my hands into my hair, claw at my scalp, unable to look into those knowing eyes. Quinn grabs my chin and angles my face toward his. The rough pads of his fingers abrasive against my skin.
“Price Wells,” he says through gritted teeth. “One of the lawyers from Lark and Gannet.”
I nod against his grip. “Yes.”
His other hand latches on to my arm, restraining me in place. “And you’re a part of this conspiracy.”
Pain lances my chest, sucking the air from my lungs. But I manage, “Yes.”
He releases me all at once, and I stumble back. Catching my balance, I prop my hands on the dresser. “Quinn…”
He turns his back to me. “Get out.”
The ache in my chest is unbearable. Suffocating, hacking away at my soul. I shake all over, every muscle and nerve a mess of spasms. I’m afraid to move. If I do, I’ll fall apart. “Don’t you want an explanation?”
He rebounds so quickly, turning to face me and stalking forward, I cringe against the dresser. “There’s nothing about this you can explain or justify…” He spits the word at me, the fire in his eyes liquefying me beneath his furious blaze.
Tentatively, because I have nothing left to lose, I pry my fingers from the edge of the dresser and reach up. My hand trembles as I lay it against his chest.
His ragged breathing intensifies. “Avery…I’m warning you.”
I can’t stop. I want to know. If this is the last time Quinn will ever be this close to me, I have to know. A quake rolls through me. With unsteady fingers, I carefully unbutton one, then two buttons of his shirt. By the time I reach the third, my heart threatens to tear through the cartilage of my chest.
He allows me to push aside his shirt and reveal the tattooed script imprinted on his flesh. My fingers trace the slightly beveled letters, the warmth beneath my hand searing.
At his best, man is the noblest of all animals; separated from law and justice he is the worst.
“Aristotle,” I whisper. My gaze flicks up to capture his penetrating stare regarding me. “There is a higher court than courts of justice, and that’s the court of conscience. It supersedes all other courts.”
Quinn’s features contort painfully. “You think Gandhi would approve of your actions? Is your conscience completely clear of what you and Sadie have done?”
I flatten my hand over the verse. Thunderous and wild, his heartbeat rockets against my palm. “No, not at all.” I stare into his heated gaze. “If I felt what I did wasn’t wrong, if I could live with it…I wouldn’t be chancing everything right now by telling you.”
My legs go weak. No longer able to hold myself up, exhaustion and depletion of adrenaline claim my limbs. I’m falling.
A deep groan barrels free as he anchors his hands to my waist. Then I’m lifted up and seated on the dresser, my face forced level with his. My breath catches.
“What am I supposed to do?” His eyes search me, but I’m not e
ntirely sure he’s asking—more demanding I give him some answer that makes sense of this for him.
