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That doesn’t solve my biggest dilemma though.
If he finds out who my father is, he’ll think I betrayed them again.
How will he ever really love me when he knows?
I brush my teeth and hair and freshen up, but I’m still shaky.
Of course I’m not in cahoots with Montague. But will he jump to the worst conclusions?
“Back to bed with you,” he says in that authoritative way that makes my heart squeeze. I don’t want to lose this, his protection and fierce loyalty. Having someone I candependon. Someone strong enough to lean on.
I want to believe this is real.
I want to believe that he really loves me.
Whatislove, anyway?
“I have to investigate a few things today. The fact that Rousseau is dead isn’t good. I’m an asshole for taking you with me yesterday.” He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes tight a moment before he opens them again. “I should’ve made sure you were safe and never should’ve taken you to talk to her.”
“I’m fine,” I reassure him, giving his hand a squeeze. “Remember? Dr. Martin said I’m fine.”
“But fuck, Cosette, if they’d attacked while we were at the warehouse—”
“Did they?” I ask pointedly.
“No.”
“You have secure locations, and that’s one of them. You brought me with you there because you knew it to be safe. She wasn’t killed there because itwassafe, and we both know that if you’d been anywhere else, you would have feared that someone would’ve hurt me. You know that you’d have done literally anything in your power to protect me.”
“Of course.”
Lyam needs to make peace with the fact that he can’t wrap me in foam wrap and ensure that no one, ever, hurts me or our child.
“Then stop beating yourself up already.” I shake my head.
Turning to me, he gives me a hint of a smile before he shakes his own head and lifts the covers. “You’re the only one who gets away with talking to me like that.”
“Good. Then things are as they should be.” I smile, but it feels forced. I haven’t put to rest my fears, or my deep-seated need to flee when things get good, because getting closer to him and having my hopes dashed will destroy me. I can’t let them. I can’t lethim.
Lyam is distracted.
“Lyam?”
My heart begins to beat faster with nerves. This time, I’m not sure the rolling nausea is related to hormones. “Lyam, talk to me. What is it?”
“Here,” he says, still a million miles away. He hands me a mug of steaming tea that smells minty. “It’s that tea that helps.”
I sip it gratefully, my heart warming.
He knows what I need. He meets my needs.
I reach for his hand and give it a squeeze. He kisses my fingertips. Even when he’s troubled and hurt, he softens when he’s with me.
I want to do that for him. I want tobethat for him.
He doesn’t answer me at first, only sits beside me and lifts my hand to his mouth. He kisses my fingers, one by one.
“How are you feeling?” he asks softly.
