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My husband was beyond intelligent, but where emotions were concerned, he was a Neanderthal.
Love filled me, concern and need warring with it as I tried to figure out how to help him.
How to reassure him about something that was entirely out of my hands.
That wasn't an impossible feat, was it?
I went limp under him then let my legs come up to cup his, lifting my arms to embrace him as I asked, “Why do you want me to imagine all those things?”
“Because I…” He sucked in a breath, and as I looked into those beautiful eyes that had graced me with so much affection over the length of our marriage, I saw the way his pupils were constricted.
They were so tiny, it was like he’d done drugs, but I knew my husband. As much as this situation was an anomaly, he didn’t do drugs.
The physiological response was out of his control, and it made me think about all the other stuff he'd been doing recently.
He'd had bad headaches. Had complained about hearing weird noises when our apartment was so high up, the only thing you could hear outside were birds.
He never watched the TV above volume 10 because anything else was too loud so Victoria and I always needed subtitles to hear the damn shows.
He cleaned.
He worked out. A lot.
But worse than anything, his gun had moved from the nightstand drawer to under his pillow.
That was why I'd initiated the conversation between us.
“Because?” I prompted gently, wishing I could wrap him up in my love and fix whatever the wars and the military had done to him.
All the O’Donnelly sons were messed up because of their dad, but I knew Eoghan had it harder because of his time as a soldier.
As I rubbed my nose against his cheek, he whispered, “They always let you think that’s the last time, but it never is.”
I tried to figure out what he was talking about but the only thing that made sense was impossible.
Or was it?
“Have you done a job recently?” I asked, the words dripping slowly from my mouth as I registered how ridiculous the question was.
Then he shocked me.
A breath escaped him. “Yes.”
“When? In New York? I haven’t heard anything on the news…”
“It started in Ireland,” he choked out.
“On our honeymoon?” I screeched.
“Where do you think I was when you were at that spa overnight?”
“I just thought you went to play golf, Eoghan. I didn’t think you’d gone off to kill someone!” I yelped, annoyed beyond belief.
Of course, that annoyance was founded more in the fact that he’d ruined our honeymoon with work rather than the fact someone had died by his hand—yes, I knew I had skewed priorities, but I was a daughter of the Bratva.
Death and life were the only certainties, not death and taxes. And for me, it seemed predestined that I would always be a part of a murder investigation wherever I went in the world.
My honeymoon was now the makings of an episode of CSI.
