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Mathieu couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop from bringing his nose to just under Win’s left ear, inhaling him. The other man trembled in his embrace but he didn’t move away. Mathieu ensured Win could leave if he wanted to.
But he didn’t seem to want that.
Lifting his head, Mathieu peered up at him. Emotion roughened his breaths and strummed through his body. There’d never been a thing as sacred as Win in his arms. And he’d been the fucking idiot who threw it away, tossed it aside as if it wasn’t life. Familiar regret burned his eyes, anger too, but he had questions that needed answers and it was past time he asked them.
“I hurt you.”
Win didn’t respond, not that Mathieu needed it. They knew the deal.
“I’m angry at myself for that. I’m angry that I lost sight of myself and us, who we are to each other. I’m angry I allowed myself to be distracted, to be turned away from you and me.” That anger pulsed now, fire-hot, and he wondered if Win felt the heat of it, pressed as they were against each other. Win’s fingertips flexed on his shoulders. Mathieu cupped the back of the other man’s neck, bringing his head down, their foreheads pressed together as the words tumbled from him. “I’m angry at you, for what you did too.”
Win’s breath hitched. “Mathieu.”
“How could you do it?” He was begging now because he needed to know. There was nothing he wanted to know more. “How could you marry the man who killed my father?”
14
Win’s lungsseized at Mathieu’s question. As unsteady as he was, if the other man hadn’t been holding on to him, he’d have crashed to the floor.
“How could you marry the man who killed my father?”
He damn well should have anticipated the question coming at some point, but it’d been so long…so much time had passed. He didn’t think Mathieu would ever ask. He’d stopped preparing himself to face the hurt in his ex’s eyes, the pain, the anger, and confusion too.
They stared back at Win now and he couldn’t find words. It was too late. Even if he could speak, even if he could explain, Mathieu wouldn’t actually hear it. He wouldn’t believe it.
Win remembered the absolute devastation in Mathieu’s eyes when he found out—when Win told him—about him being with Jairo. He’d been only too happy to share that bit of news, hoping it would hurt Mathieu the way Mathieu had hurt him. It was only days later that Mathieu told Win about his suspicions regarding Jairo’s involvement in Mathieu’s father’s death.
By then it’d been too late.
Win knew for an absolute fact Jairo had nothing to do with Mathieu’s father’s death, but if he explained that he’d have to explain so much more and he couldn’t. They weren’t his secrets to share.
All of that flashed in his mind now as he stared into Mathieu’s eyes, wishing he could do something, anything to take away that pain. Mathieu and his father had a strained relationship in the years leading up to the old man’s death, ever since Mathieu rescued Win and brought him into the fold. There’d been a choice forced on Mathieu and he’d chosen Win.
Over and over again.
Until he didn’t.
But he’d loved his father. Had idolized him. And Win was very aware that he was the only thing standing between Mathieu, Jairo, and all-out war.
“Mathieu.” His fingers acted of their own accord, digging into Mathieu’s shoulders, fisting his shirt. “I’m sorry.” For everything he couldn’t say. “Please—”
Mathieu shook him slightly. “Tell me, Win. Make me understand.”
Maybe Win could make him understand, maybe, but it wasn’t his choice to make, wasn’t his chance to take. “I’m sorry.” His voice cracked and Mathieu’s lips firmed.
“You hate me that much?” Mathieu asked in a voice so wounded that Win started shaking his head vigorously long before the other man finished speaking.
“No! I—I…” But he had hated Mathieu in those early days once discovering his betrayal. Win had hated him as fiercely as he’d loved him, and it’d been those warring emotions that had sent him crashing into Jairo’s arms. He’d been searching for someone who wasn’t Mathieu and a way to deliver his own blow.
Allowing Mathieu to think he would knowingly seek out—and stay—with the man who killed his father was unfair, but Win’s hands were tied. That was the main reason he’d distanced himself from Mathieu, refusing to meet face-to-face for so long.
He’d fucked up now, hadn’t he?
He tipped his head down, closing the distance and putting their foreheads together again as he forced the strangled words from his throat. “Jairo didn’t kill your father.”
Thunder rolled behind Mathieu’s eyes and his grip tightened on Win, his expression the darkest Win had ever seen, filled with rage and pain. His jaw clenched and he abruptly released Win, getting up from his perch on the edge of his desk. Win stumbled backward but managed to grab Mathieu’s hand as he stepped away.
“Mathieu.” He tugged and the other man didn’t fight him, allowing Win to pull him close. Close enough to see the disappointment in his eyes. A pang went through Win. They hadn’t been together for so long, but the mere thought of disappointing the other man rubbed him raw. He cupped Mathieu’s jaw with a shaky hand. “Jairo didn’t kill your father.” It was a weird feeling, as if he was being torn in two. His heart. His loyalty. Torn right down the middle. When Mathieu opened his mouth to speak, brow lowered, expression twisted into an angry grimace, Win said, “Listen to me.” He inched in closer. Lost in the alchemy of Mathieu’s eyes. In the familiarity of his heat, his orbit. “Jairo didn’t do it.”
