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“Rick.”
At the sound of Candace’s voice, I turn to find her in the doorway—God, she’s beautiful, too beautiful for my sanity. And as I always knew it would be, there is no hesitation in me, no ability to stay away from her. I close the space between us, slide a hand under her hair to settle on her neck, her sweet, floral scent exploding in my nostrils, and igniting the burn of everything I feel for this woman. I pull her around and to me, our mouths a hot breath from touching. “Candace,” I murmur, words lingering on my tongue, unspoken promises of forever and happily ever after that a brisk wind seems to catch and carry away as if those promises die right there and then before I ever offer them to her.
Which is bullshit. I will not let her down again. Ever.
And still, the promises are lost. They’re gone. I don’t speak one of them and I don’t know why. “Let’s go inside,” I say instead.
She pulls back and searches my face, fixing me in a penetrating stare. A stare that sees too much, more than I even believe I know is there, before she says, “Yes. Let’s go inside.” And with that, she turns and walks inside. Alone. Without me. I don’t know what she just read in me, but whatever it was, she didn’t like it. And neither did I.
I take a long, driven stride and catch her hand, dragging her back to me, but I don’t have to try hard. She steps into my move and pokes my chest, her eyes blazing with anger. “What just happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Liar,” she accuses and she might as well have reached in my chest and pulled out my heart with that one word. “I thought you weren’t going to lie to me, Rick?” she presses. “I thought that was the one thing you weren’t going to do. Break my heart and leave me, yes. But lie? No.”
“I’m not lying, baby. I was in my own head and I don’t know what happened. I was trapped in my own hell that I couldn’t put into words.”
“Then say that. I won’t push you to say more, not unless you decide you want to say more. I promise you. Just don’t tell me nothing is wrong when I know better.”
“Guilt,” I admit. “That’s what happened. Guilt for bringing this on you. Guilt for not coming back and stopping this from happening. Just—guilt.”
Her eyes burn with emotions and then soften with her shoulders. “Guilt does us no good. Please don’t do that to you or us, Rick. We’re barely together as it is.”
Adam chooses that moment to appear in the doorway. “We’re ready with the audio.”
I shoot him a glare. “We’ll be right there.”
“Asher says we need to hear this now and not later,” Adam says. “So now.” With that push, he disappears into the house.
I catch Candace’s hair in my fingers and stare down at her. “We are not barely together any more than we are just having sex.” I kiss her then, claiming her, a deep, take-all-I-can-take kind of kiss and then I say, “All in, baby. We’re all in.” And because I might climb on the railing and scream while beating my damn chest if she says otherwise, I don’t give her time to reply. I snag her hand and lead her inside. Because what better way to end a conversation about our very special, lasting relationship, than listening in on a conversation between two other men, one of which is her fiancé.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Savage
Smith sits at the table, working through transmission issues with the audio. Just beyond him, in the center of the table, the general’s book sits bagged and protected, a centerpiece symbolic of secrets, lies, and war.
Nearby, Candace throws her nervous energy into making coffee while I watch from the doorway. Adam joins me, his voice low, tight. “I talked to Asher about the content of the audio,” he says, his words meant for only me. “Asher says there’s nothing about her father on the audio. That feels off to me.”
“Not if the Society still believe he’s on Gabe’s side,” I argue.
“We know that’s not true of Honest Gabe,” he points out.
“Come on, man. Honest Gabe is as dishonest as they get. He wouldn’t alert Pocher, his main money man, that the general had become a problem.”
“He’d just—”
“Kill him while he’s on a mission,” Candace supplies, cutting off Adam, and making it clear that she heard every word of our not-so-discreet conversation. She offers us each a cup of coffee. “Coffee with white mocha creamer in it. I love it and so does Rick.”
Her reference to what I love, to what we love, is loaded with memories of this house, this life, and this woman that I have no intention of losing yet again. Not to war. Not to monsters and fools like Honest Gabe.
