He'd had bad headaches. Had complained about hearing weird noises when our apartment was so high up, the only thing you could hear outside were birds.
He never watched the TV above volume 10 because anything else was too loud so Victoria and I always needed subtitles to hear the damn shows.
He cleaned.
He worked out. A lot.
But worse than anything, his gun had moved from the nightstand drawer to under his pillow.
That was why I'd initiated the conversation between us.
“Because?” I prompted gently, wishing I could wrap him up in my love and fix whatever the wars and the military had done to him.
All the O’Donnelly sons were messed up because of their dad, but I knew Eoghan had it harder because of his time as a soldier.
As I rubbed my nose against his cheek, he whispered, “They always let you think that’s the last time, but it never is.”
I tried to figure out what he was talking about but the only thing that made sense was impossible.
Or was it?
“Have you done a job recently?” I asked, the words dripping slowly from my mouth as I registered how ridiculous the question was.
Then he shocked me.
A breath escaped him. “Yes.”
“When? In New York? I haven’t heard anything on the news…”
“It started in Ireland,” he choked out.
“On our honeymoon?” I screeched.
“Where do you think I was when you were at that spa overnight?”
“I just thought you went to play golf, Eoghan. I didn’t think you’d gone off to kill someone!” I yelped, annoyed beyond belief.
Of course, that annoyance was founded more in the fact that he’d ruined our honeymoon with work rather than the fact someone had died by his hand—yes, I knew I had skewed priorities, but I was a daughter of the Bratva.
Death and life were the only certainties, not death and taxes. And for me, it seemed predestined that I would always be a part of a murder investigation wherever I went in the world.
My honeymoon was now the makings of an episode of CSI.
Enraged and hurting, my hands went to his shoulders to shove him away, but if anything, he seemed to grow heavier.
“Let me up,” I snapped.
“No,” he argued. “You wanted to know what was going on with me, well, now you know.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You didn’t have to take that job.”
“Didn’t you hear me? They always say it’s the last time, but it never is.”
“What are you talking about? Who the fuck are ‘they?’”
“I’m talking about—” He sighed. “Christ. What does it even fucking matter?”
That was when he flopped back on the sofa, letting me up, and of course, that was when I didn’t want to get up.
With his admission, everything shifted.
I rocked forward, leaning over him as much as he’d done me. Studying the fatigue on his face, a fatigue that had grown worse since our return, I reached up and touched the lines of strain streaking across his forehead.
My anger burned off, the fanned flames dissipating when I caught sight of those pinpricks for pupils, and I muttered, “I’m sorry I freaked out.”
I didn’t think I owed him an apology, but I’d learned that ‘sorry’ got a woman farther than bitter words ever could. Unfair, but that was life.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” he said with a sigh, his chin tipping forward. As our gazes connected, he asked, “Where’s your phone?”
“Huh?”
“Where’s your phone?” he repeated.
“I left it in the gym. Why?”
“Never mind.” Eoghan reached up and slipped a strand of hair behind my ear that had fallen forward and drifted above him. I almost flinched, but I managed to contain it. Just. He saw it, of course. He saw everything, and the regret in his eyes was apology enough. “Are you more pissed that I worked on our honeymoon or that I killed someone?”
My cheeks pinkened, but I admitted, “That you worked.”
His top lip quirked slightly. “You look so innocent. You are so innocent. But the life tainted you before I could protect you from it.”
“Is that a complaint?” My tone was wary.
“No,” he denied. “I’m a lucky bastard.”
“At least you know it,” I said promptly and earned another twitch of his lips.
“I do. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“You did mean to,” I countered. “You only didn't because I know you too well."
“I wanted you to understand,” he rumbled huskily.
“How could I?”
His throat worked. “Every time you leave the house, I think about my enemies, and my family’s enemies, potentially paying someone to do exactly what I do and for you to be at the end of the crosshairs. Do you know what that does to me?”
I frowned. “So this is to do with me going to college?”
“A little, but I’m not about to stop you from living.” His nostrils flared. “There’s no life to be had when you’re trapped in a gilded cage.”
“I have guards,” I offered, well aware that if he were my father, gilded cage or not, I’d be locked up faster than I could say, ‘No.’
“You do,” he agreed.
“They don’t protect me from snipers though, do they?” I whispered, our eyes still locked and loaded on each other.
“No.” He breathed the word. “No, they don’t.”
“Am I at risk?”
“Not as far as I know, but you don’t have to be for me to worry about you. Look at Christmas. What happened at the house. Look what happened with Savannah. There are no assurances.”
My arms tightened around him. “You could be hurt too,” I pointed out.
“I could,” he agreed. “Look at Aoife. She didn’t even have to leave her apartment to hurt. Life is pain.”
His words made something inside me ache.
I cupped his chin and whispered, “That way of thinking is as much of a cage as this apartment could be for me.”
For the first time, I felt a barrier between us, and I didn’t want that so I knew I needed to prod.
Eoghan was the kind of man you could do that with. He wouldn’t slap me if I asked the wrong question, he’d just tell me he couldn’t answer.
He wasn’t my father.
Cautiously, I questioned, “You said that they let you think it’s the last time, but it never is. Who were you talking about? Who hired you?”
“They don’t hire you; they recruit you,” he corrected wearily.
Brow puckered, I questioned, “Who does?”
“Government agencies.”
I processed that. “You work for, what? The CIA?”
“Something like that.” He reached up and pressed a finger to my lips. “Best not to ask questions.”
“Even though whatever they made you do hurt you?”
For a second, I wasn’t sure if he was going to answer, then he said, “There are three people in this world who are as good a shot as me.”
“Three?” More proof he wasn’t my father. Papa was the best at everything. Always.