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I opened my mouth and closed it. I was about to say victim, but that wasn’t right. My mother did not sit passively by, she was a fighter, a lover, a passionate, vibrant soul. What happened to her was tragic, but somehow, hero didn’t fit, either.
Sloane swore and rubbed her temples, balancing her elbows on her knees. “Look. This isn’t how I wanted to do this. Everybody thinks I’m this great mediator, but usually, I don’t have the first goddamn clue what I’m doing.”
“Then why stick your nose in it at all?”
“Because I care about Connor. I see what he puts himself through because of his guilt. I see it. I feel it. I miss Aiden every single day, but I never once blamed Connor. No one did, except Callum. I tried to fix things between them, but…” She spread her hands as if to say,you know fathers.
“Connor told me what happened. It’s eating him up.”
“Self-flagellation always was one of his strong suits.”
I sat down and picked at my nail polish. It was a long time before I spoke. “I understand it. What you said before. About why Connor chooses to stay here. I understand debts owed. Guilt. But what I don’t understand is the…the cold arrogance that comes over him and the possessive violence. The way he just pushes everyone around to get what he wants, especially me. Lying. Manipulating.” I shook my head. “I know which Connor I’m in danger of falling in love with, but…I don’t know which one is real.”
Sloane swirled a black-tipped finger around the rim of her glass. “And is that the only thing holding you back?”
Yes. But also, no. Even if Connor was the person I thought he was, that still didn’t erase what he did by choice, no matter how noble his intentions. And being with him made me just as complicit.
“Did Connor tell you what happened to his parents?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Only that they were killed.”
“Well, that is not my story to tell, but you should know that he blames himself for that, too. And for Aiden. And for every single one of the guys killed on the job. He blames himself for Johnny.”
I closed my eyes against the list of the dead. So many.
“Saying that Connor is protective isn’t enough. What he has is this…” Sloane touched her heart. “This terrible fear that is hardwired into him now. It’s slowly eating away at him, and I’m afraid he will compromise everything he is to protect the ones he loves. Connor would rather you hate him and be safe than lose you.”
She leaned forward. “And he does love you. So much it terrifies him. But I am not going to sit here and watch him destroy himself for a woman who isn’t willing to love all of him, the good and the bad.”
Protection. Guilt. Fear. Three words that sat so heavily on both our shoulders, it wasn’t surprising that we were yoked together by them.
“And the crime? How do you reconcile yourself with that at the end of the day?” It was a loaded question. Sloane knew it, and so did I.
“You know I can’t answer that for you, because it’s different for each of us. You think about what exactly it is that you hate so much about this life, you separate that from the rest of it, and you talk about it with Connor. Because it’s between the two of you—how deep you’re in it, and where you draw the line.”
I was so confused. To be honest, I had felt off-kilter since the day I laid eyes on Connor. He made me feel things. Things I never felt about a man, certainly deeper things than just a silly superficial crush. I had been in love before, but this…
This was ugly. It was messy.
And it hurt.
Connor took me home not long after that. He looked worn out, and I’d had enough of forcing a smile for people I didn’t like. It was astounding how quickly that strong line of moral limits I’d set for myself had been breached. It seemed like a daily occurrence, now.
We didn’t say a word to each other on the ride. Connor’s fingers tapped an erratic tattoo against the steering wheel, his posture uncharacteristically rigid. Tension filled the air between us, thick and cloying. Sloane’s words echoed in my head. She hadn’t swayed me one way or another—I didn’t think that was her aim—but it was becoming apparent to me that the situation we were in was not as black and white as I had made it out to be.
Wispy shades of grey in the darkness. Insubstantial, hard to grasp. I had a lot to think about.
I set my bag on the kitchen island while Connor locked and deadbolted the front door after a few words with the guy on guard duty tonight. There were butterflies in my stomach. I grabbed the kettle and the French press. I needed to give my hands something to do, and a Keurig wasn’t going to do the job.
“Do you want coffee?” I flitted around the kitchen, restless. “I was going to sit up for a while, I thought…I thought maybe we could—”
“Tomorrow, Cass, I’m sorry. I-I need to get some sleep.”
He sounded off. I turned, but when I finally got a glimpse of him under the bright kitchen lighting, I set the kettle down with a clang. “Connor, are you all right? You look…”
Sick. He looked sick. His fair skin was parchment white, dark smudges standing out beneath his eyes like bruises. Even his lips were pale. “I’m…I—”
He grabbed at the island, but I couldn’t move fast enough. Connor’s knees buckled, and he hit the ground with a meaty thump.
