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I liked that.
I needed that.
More than I wanted anyone to know.
Unwittingly, an ember stirred to life inside me.
I didn’t even register its existence, didn’t acknowledge what I didn’t sense, but it began to burn.
His long, strong form was so different from Nyx’s. He wasn’t bulky, but rangy, and it fit his tailored clothes to perfection. Though tall, over six feet at a minimum, the thin pinstripe added to his height, and made me feel like he was looming over me. Throw in a pair of Oxfords that gleamed so much it made me wonder if he had a spell on them that repelled the everyday dust from a stable, he was everything I wasn’t at that moment.
Polished.
Pristine.
Perfect.
I finally bit my lip, my defenses quivering, and knew it wasn’t my imagination when I saw his eyes darken.
“I didn’t get your mother killed. She got herself killed.”
Irritation had me spitting, “It takes two to tango.”
“And we were both insane when we disregarded the risks for some momentary pleasure.”
It was strange to think of my mother as a sexual being. In my mind, I still remembered her through the eyes of a teenager, where anything like that was disgusting in relation to your parents.
Mostly, I was perplexed by the distinct age gap.
For her, I understood it.
But Brennan O’Donnelly?
If he looked like this now, then I couldn’t imagine him not being able to get any woman he set his sights on...
“Are you an adrenaline junkie?” I asked warily, because I’d already been in limbo with one of those and I didn’t need it again. Not that I had a choice, of course.
Christ, my life sucked.
His scowl made an appearance. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m just curious.”
“Well, don’t be.” His mouth pursed. “I didn’t get Mariska killed.”
That he was repeating himself told me I’d struck a nerve.
Good.
“For the longest time, I believed the raid was just an unhappy twist of fate.” Revulsion twisted its way inside me, unfurling like a snake uncoiling itself. “Her diary made me see things from a different perspective.”
“I’d like to see this diary,” he groused, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“You may.” I smiled. “After we’re married.”
“We’re not getting married.”
“We are,” I told him, my voice steely. “Youpromisedher. It might as well have been a deathbed promise.”
