I study his face. “How do you know?”
“I’m me.”
He says it without a trace of sarcasm. Then he’s kissing me, tenderly holding my face between his huge, rough hands. Breathing erratically, he kisses my cheeks and my neck and my mouth, every press of his lips possessive and loving.
I laugh softly, closing my eyes, falling deeper into him with every beat of my heart.
Before he reluctantly agrees to take me home, Killian insists I allow the doctor to examine me.
He does, looking like he thinks he’ll be executed by firing squad if he makes a mistake.
I feel a little bad for him, but then we’re leaving, and I can think of nothing else but getting into a hot bath and getting into bed.
Killian’s bed. Where, if I get my way, I will never leave.
The doctor cleaned and bandaged my feet so they’re in much better shape than they were, but Killian insists on carrying me out of the hospital himself. Apparently, a wheelchair is out of the question.
He doesn’t let me sit in front of the SUV with him, either. He bundles me across the back seat, tucking a blanket all around me with fierce concentration.
I don’t mention that it’s probably safer for me up front, what with the seat belts and all, because I sense he’s holding onto his calm by a thread.
We drive in the middle of a caravan of what seems like a hundred black SUVs until we reach the skyscraper he calls his home. When we pull in front of the elevators in the parking garage, there must be fifty armed men lined up along either side. He leaves the car running, runs around to my side, and gently picks me up again.
On the ride up to the penthouse, he’s silent. I don’t know what’s brewing in his head, and I don’t ask. I sense a deep, simmering rage inside him.
I get the feeling those bodies he left behind when he rescued me aren’t going to be nearly enough to slake his fury.
I don’t think he’ll stop taking retribution until the corpses are piled so high they block out the sun.
The first thing he does when we get inside the penthouse is head straight for the bedroom. He sets me carefully on the bed, props my head up on pillows, and tells me he’ll be right back. He returns quickly with a big bottle of water and a plate of food.
Fruit, potato chips, and a tuna fish sandwich.
Seeing that tuna fish sandwich makes me tear up.
While I stuff my face, he disappears into the master bathroom. I hear the sound of running water. I think he’s taking a shower, but he returns fully dressed.
“Bath?”
I groan in anticipation. “Yes, please.”
He nods and drags a hand through his hair. I watch in fascination as he removes his tactical vest, knee pads, boots, socks, and the utility belt of death. He pulls the long-sleeve camouflage shirt over his head and discards it. Beneath it is a bulletproof vest strapped over an olive drab T-shirt, both of which he removes as well.
Then he’s standing bare chested in front of me wearing only a pair of camouflage tactical pants. The kind with all the pockets for stashing knives, radios, scalps, and whatnot.
In a low voice, he says, “I can’t talk about it yet. Not just yet. I’m too…” He shakes his head, looking away and swallowing. “But you have my word I’ll tell you everything. No more secrets.”
Who he is, he means.
What he is.
I say softly, “Okay. Whenever you’re ready. I trust you.”
He cuts his eyes back to me, and now they’re burning. He growls, “I could hear you tell me that every day for the rest of my life.”
My heart is doing something strange. Some kind of weird tango, swinging wildly around underneath my ribcage. But I try to keep the mood light. We’ve had enough drama to last us a while.
“If you play your cards right, gangster, you just might.”
For the first time since he pulled me out of that hole, a flicker of light shines in his eyes. A corner of his mouth tugs up, but fails to convince the rest of his mouth to smile.
He carries me into the bathroom, sits me on the closed toilet lid, and helps me undress. Then he lowers me carefully into the hot water, gently scolding me to keep my bandaged feet up on the edge of the tub so they stay dry.
I just smile at him.
I smile as he washes my skin and my hair, smile as he concentrates on rinsing all the suds off me, smile as he lifts me to the edge of the tub and dries me off with a big, fluffy towel.
For a change of pace, I yawn as he carries me back to bed.
He pulls the covers over me and kisses my forehead. “Do you need anything?”
“Not right now. But when I wake up, watch out. You should probably start stretching.” I yawn again, fatigue starting to overwhelm me. I’m tired down to the marrow of my bones.
“Promises, promises,” he whispers, brushing his lips over my temple.
He sits on the edge of the bed, caressing my hair, until I’m drifting fast into the arms of sleep. Just as I’m about to tumble over a cliff into darkness, he lies down beside me, pulls me back against his chest, kisses the nape of my neck, and sighs.
I mumble, “You okay?”
“Just thinking about your father.”
“While you’re spooning me? That’s vaguely disturbing.”
“I’ll have to go see him soon.”
“Why?”
“To ask him permission to marry you.”
“Ha. Good one.”
I smile and burrow into the pillow, knowing I’m already deep asleep and dreaming.
31
Killian
“What’s past is prologue.”
It’s a famous quote from The Tempest by Shakespeare. People often incorrectly think it means the past predicts the future, that what’s to come has already been decided. But the full quote says the opposite: “Whereof what’s past is prologue; what to come, in yours and my discharge.”
In other words, we write our own destinies. The past is simply what comes before the first act.
Watching Juliet sleep, I realize that my entire life leading up to this moment has been prologue.
I’ve been waiting for the first act to begin.
I had to find her before I could really start living.
Careful not to disturb her, I rise from the bed and go into the kitchen. I pour myself three fingers of scotch. Then I call Liam.
He answers after only one ring, his voice tense with worry. “Brother. Talk to me.”
“It’s done. She’s safe.”
His exhalation is heavy and filled with relief. “Injuries?”
A fleeting smile crosses my lips. “Nothing that stopped her from bossing me around the minute she laid eyes on me.”
He scoffs. “Because you would never do such a thing.”
One of the many reasons we’re a perfect match.
I drink more of my scotch. We sit for a moment in silence until he speaks again, his voice low. “I owe you an apology.”
“I know what you’re about to say. Don’t say it.”
“No, it has to be said. I was the one who let them get away.”
“You sank thirty rounds into that car.”
“I should’ve gone inside with Tru.”
“You had no reason to. It was a police station, for fuck’s sake. It doesn’t get much safer than that. It shows how desperate they were that they decided to take her there.”