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“Hey, hey, come here. I’m fine.” Tugging her closer was like trying to displace dead weight. She planted her feet and didn’t give an inch. But he didn’t stop until she was against his chest and he could fold his sore arms around her and bury his face in the familiar honeysuckle scent of her hair. “I’m fine,” he repeated. “He wasn’t looking to take me out.”
“What was he looking for?” Her words were muffled against his throat. “Do you know?”
He stared out the window at the sunny London day and all the people hurrying along on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. How could sunshine feel so cold?
“Validation, I think,” he said after a minute. “Acknowledgement that he existed.”
She eased back and stared up at him. “You believe him.”
Even with Nick, he hadn’t been ready to fully admit it. Only with his wife could he let the truth that lived inside him free.
“Yeah. I believe him.” He exhaled and tipped her face up with his thumb. “I need some aspirin, but I don’t want to let you go.”
Shaking her head, she smiled weakly and gave him a light push toward the bed. “Sit. Let me do my wifely duty.”
He couldn’t deny the idea of someone fussing over him sounded damn good. “I thought you didn’t want to coo.”
“Cooing is optional.” She was already heading into the bathroom.
He flopped back on the mattress and immediately regretted it. Aw, fuck. Did that kid have steel in his joints or something?
Cold comfort came from the fact that he knew Ian had to be hurting too. Simon had taken too many beatings himself not to know where and how to hit, even if he was out of practice.
And thank fuck for that. Those days were over, and he wasn’t going back.
“Bless you,” he said fervently as Margo came around the bed, carrying a bottle of pills and a glass of water.
In the old days, he would’ve wished for vodka, and he couldn’t say he’d entirely stopped wanting it. But right now, the water felt like a balm on his too-tight throat. As did her hand smoothing over his forehead.
“You should strip so I can take a look at the rest of you.”
He waggled his brows. Even they hurt. Christ. “Sorry, I might have to make you wait a bit for that.”
“Did I mention you were a jackass?”
“Yes, and I’ve said it to myself a few times as well.”
“Swallow your pills.”
“Yes, Mom.”
Her brow furrowed and she turned her head away as he did as she’d asked. Then he laid back against the pillows and trailed his fingers over her hip, nearly indistinguishable in her padded robe. “Did you sleep?”
“Yes.”
“You were out.”
She bowed her head and a chunk of thick dark hair fell free to hide her face. His fingers itched to tuck it back, but that would be too easy. She deserved more.
Like the truth.
“It was all over the net. Everyone knows. So many articles, and YT clips of his show, and all the gossip rags were speculating if he’s the new Simon Kagan.” He stared up at the ceiling. “Except I’m still right fucking here.”
“He’s not you.”
“He looks like me. Sounds like me. Just a younger, hungrier version. He still wants it. I saw everything burning in him that used to be in me.”
“Are you saying it isn’t? That you don’t want this life anymore?”
