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The memory of her body in my arms and her lips on mine filters through my brain. The way her eyes glowed white, the way her mouth parted. Then it all came crashing down when she punched me hard enough to bloody her own lip.
“What the fuck?” I growled, reaching for her again. I’d wanted to wipe the blood away, but my kindness just made her angrier.
“Thanks for the assist, but you and I both know you only saved me to save yourself.”
Fates, the hate on her face made me want to scream. “You. I saved you, because… You know what? Never mind. It doesn’t matter what I say, you’ll always believe the worst in me.”
Her face twisted for just a moment, an ounce of regret there before her expression hardened once more. “You’re right. I will. You killed?—”
“I know what I did. And I’ve paid for it—relived it—every fucking day for a century.” In an effort not to touch her, I raked a hand through my hair, careful not to rip it from the roots. “But I can’t change the past. What I’ve done…or how?—”
“Don’t finish that sentence, Rhys. Don’t you fucking dare. We’re bonded, yes, but that’s it.”
That was the last time we spoke—the last time I felt her eyes on me. The last time I felt a glimmer of hope that she might change her mind.
As long as she hates me, I’ll never be what I’m meant to be.
But at least I can keep her safe.
Scratching my scruff, I use the rearview mirror to keep an eye on the side door to the gallery. It’s an awkward angle, the collar of my shirt digging into my skin as I crane my neck.
Fucking tie.
Loosening the knot, I curse at myself. I don’t know why I bothered to put the damn thing on. I never go into the building. Every single time I come to her openings, I hide in the car and watch the door like a damn coward.
Usually, I borrow a car from a friend, but tonight, I’m stuck in my rusted-out shit-box of a truck with no AC in a bullshit suit that she’ll never see. I really should trade up, but this old girl’s been with me for twenty years. Letting women go has never been my strong suit.
Finally, I sack up and get out of the cab. The slamming of the door results in a nice little rust confetti shower on the gutter and a loud grating shriek of metal.
So much for subterfuge.
I figure if I keep to the shadows, I can prevent Aurelia from freaking out and keep my ass out of hot water. I’d rather not get stabbed, or shot, or worse—fried. The fried thing hurts like a bitch. But I suppose she has a good reason to be sore at me.
I killed her husband. And allowed our bond without her consent. But how was I to know what would happen? How was I to know that in tying us together, she would lose everything?
It never mattered to her that I didn’t choose any of this. I killed him. In a way, I even took her child from her. I did it to save her—to keep her from a fate worse than death.
But some part of me—a big part—is glad he’s dead. What kind of monster does that make me, huh? Since the day I learned of their marriage, I wanted what he had—wanted the life he’d found for himself. Wanted her.
I killed my best friend to save her life.
And I’ve been trying to make up for it ever since.
Crossing the street, I make my way to the side entrance. Like always, the door will be propped open, Evan and her ever-present romantic streak constantly offering an in with Aurelia. She knows I’ll be close by, and eventually, I’ll man up and get my ass in there.
Just as I creak the door open, several gunshots ring out.
What. The. Fuck.
Ducking my head, a century’s worth of training kicks in and I move in a low crouch through the hall toward the main gallery. Said gallery that incidentally contains the source of the gunfire. Pausing for a second, I assess my situation, touching each weapon as if they were my own personal worry stones.
Smith & Wesson M&P40 in my right hip holster, backup mags at my left. Ruger SR40c in the left shoulder holster, extra mags in my right. Backup gun in the shoulder holster, thin Morganite blade at my right ankle lead-lined knife sheath. Small .38 Special five-shot at my left ankle.
While I’m loaded for bear, I could probably be covered in every single weapon I own and not be prepared for what I’m about to see. Peeking past an industrial-looking I-beam, I survey the wreckage of Aurelia’s show. The food table has been knocked over, appetizers strewn everywhere. The detritus of cloth napkins and China plates scatter over the concrete floor. Paintings litter the ground or hang haphazardly on the walls, their frames cracked, their canvases gouged with bullets. The crowd is gone, save for a few wounded patrons.
Evan is missing from the melee, but being what she is, it’s probably a good thing.
No one wants Evan to lose it. Including me.
