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“Were you in danger?”
When she didn’t answer, I couldn’t stop myself from growling, “Yeah. She was. If she hadn’t miscarried, and if the baby had gone to term, it could have killed her.”
That she’d shut both of us out just pissed me off all the more.
“Our baby wasn’t an ‘it,’ Finn,” Aoife snapped, twisting to face me, her hands balled at her sides.
“I could really do with some cake.”
Jen’s feeble words fell to the wayside as I snarled, “What the fuck would Jake and I have done without you, Aoife? How the fuck would we have—” My voice broke off when that goddamn arrogant righteousness seemed to filter the air around her.
She breathed it in.
Sucked it down, not realizing it was toxic.
Poison.
Her gaze was loaded with a hatred I’d earned, but not with this.
I wanted to protect her.
I loved her so fucking much, and she was talking about throwing her life aside as if Imogen meant more than her. As if all ourdeceasedbabies meant more than her health.
I wanted Imogen. I wished to fuck she were still going to grace us in August, but that wasn’t to goddamn be. And I definitely didn’t want to have my daughter if it cost me my wife.
If that made me evil, then I’d take the title, and I’d own it.
Nothing and no one was worth sacrificing Aoife for.
But I knew she didn’t see it my way. I knew we were on two different sides, and I couldn’t stop myself from flopping my hands up into the air, letting them fall, then turning away and walking out of the kitchen.
I felt like a flotation device that had been pricked with an ice pick as I headed down to my study.
But as I looked around the workspace that I’d turned into a semi-permanent office and not just somewhere to finish off a couple pieces of work over the weekend, I didn’t feel at home here either.
With Aoife and me at war, nothing felt right.
Nothing.
I didn’t have much time to dwell on it before the elevator pinged again.
Checking my Patek Phillipe, I noted the time, registered that it would be Padraig, and I headed over to the drink tray on my desk, poured myself two fingers of whiskey, and downed it.
The burn resuscitated a few of the more frozen parts in my soul, and I headed out to greet my uncle with it warming me up from the inside out.
Conor and Aidan, his godsons, hadn’t welcomed him with open arms, but I knew he’d visited Brennan and Eoghan this week.
I thought that was in thanks for their help in getting Liam back, something that the new Italian Don had facilitated by sending us the coordinates to the site where our cousin was being held hostage. But either way, he’d visited with them, and now it was my turn.
When I saw him, I had to admit, the changes in his appearance were difficult to process. The last time I’d seen him before Sunday, he’d been a grown man and I’d been a teenager.
I’d looked up to him. I’d respected him. He’d been larger than life and a welcome tonic to the craziness of Aidan Sr.
Now, he looked washed out.
A sepia version of the man I’d known and loved.
“Paddy,” I greeted, heading down to shake his hand.
