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“Clearly, I’m not the only one keeping secrets.”
Head cocked, Jairo appeared even more watchful, expression unyielding. “We agreed MC business was mine to handle.”
Win nodded. “We did, but it seems to me it’s not just you involved in whatever’s happening. Not if I get gifted my own personal bodyguard.”
Jairo drew back, breath raspy as he rubbed his gloved hands on his knees. Their eyes held for the longest time, but Win wasn’t going to look away and Jairo didn’t either. Something in Jairo’s expression worried Win; maybe it was the way Jairo so easily capitulated to Win’s blatant attempt at redirecting the conversation, shifting the topic from him and his secrets to Jairo and his. His husband read him correctly and was disappointed in what he saw.
Fuck.
“There was a threat,” Jairo said finally.
Win grabbed on to those words as if they were a lifeline. “A threat? Against who? Who made it?”
“I don’t know who made it yet.” Jairo paused. “But the threat is against you. Your life.”
Win narrowed his eyes. Him? “Me?” He jabbed at his own chest, the word squeaking past his lips. “Someone is threatening me?” But that— “Why? That doesn’t make sense.”
Jairo made a sound. “Of course it does. You’re my husband. I keep you protected and hidden away. I don’t fuck around with anyone else, ever. Everyone—friends and enemies alike—think you’re a weakness. That I love you.”
Win frowned at him.
“Which I do.” Jairo’s lips twitched. “But not in the way they think.”
Win gaped at him. “So, let me just…” He shot to his feet and started pacing. “All this time, someone has been out there, threatening my life—” He spun, stopping to face Jairo. “—and you didn’t think I needed to fucking know?” he roared.
The other man regarded him calmly. “Not if I have it under control.”
“Have it under— Are you out of your mind?” His voice cracked and Win realized he’d screamed the question. He swallowed and held up a hand. A signal to calm himself down more than anything else. “Did you or did you not just tell me you didn’t know who was behind the threats?”
“I did.” Jairo watched him carefully, as if cataloging Win’s every reaction.
“Then how? How do you have it under control, Jairo?”
“I have an idea. I’m also in possession of someone who I think might lead me to whoever issued the threat. My guys are working on him now.”
Christ. Win rubbed a hand over his face. He couldn’t believe he was going to ask, but… “What exactly is the threat? Can you be specific?” When Jairo hesitated, Win growled. “I need to know.”
“The note said I should pay more attention to my husband. That it was too easy to get to you.” Jairo pressed his lips together.
“What else?” Because clearly, Jairo was holding something back.
For the first time since Win entered the bedroom, Jairo’s gaze slid away. Just briefly, but a chill swam its way down Win’s spine all the same.
“The note also said the person knows your secret. That I should ask you about it.”
Win had to force himself to keep from freezing up on the spot. He schooled his reaction. “What do you think it means?” he asked evenly.
Jairo made a rumbly sound and got to his feet. He stroked a hand over Win’s head. Then touched his cheek. Win had long gotten used to the texture of the glove against his skin and the impersonal feel of it. The glove was a barrier, a distance, between him and Jairo—hell, between Jairo and anyone—that could never be breached.
“I know you’re keeping at least one secret from me,” Jairo told him huskily. He shrugged. “But your secrets are your own, Win. Unless I’m forced to make them mine as well.”
That was a threat, delivered in a sexy, accented rasp. Win nodded as Jairo’s lips brushed his forehead and the other man turned away, heading to the door that separated their bedrooms. “Wait. You said you might have an idea of who’s behind the threat? Who do you think it is?”
“Mathieu Pascal,” Jairo said just before he ducked into his bedroom and locked the door.
16
“She’s busy.”
