Page 64 of Arranged Devotion
Finn shakes his head distractedly. “He’s dead. Sorry.”
I throw back another drink, cursing as the alcohol wraps around my belly like a snake. “Then I’m hitting the street. I’ll find some Baranov fuck?—“
“No.” Finn stands, tucking the dossier under his arm. “You stay.”
“I can’t sit here. You know that.”
His gaze sharpens. There’s no smile, no charm. This is the Finn that’s always hidden under his big, easygoing, boyish grin. The real Finn.
“I know you’ll do what you have to, and right now, Regan needs you. How’s she going to react when she comes out here and you’re gone? You really want to leave your wife alone after that shit? We can handle this for now. God knows I’ll need you soon, but not tonight.”
I look back at the hallway leading to my bedroom. I can hear the shower water still running.
God, fucking hell, he’s right.
I was going to storm off and abandon her after she witnessed a murder and was nearly killed herself.
Guilt washes over me.
“I want to help,” I say but I already know it’s not happening.
“Then help by taking care of your wife.” Finn comes around and grips my shoulder. “We’ll do the rest for now.”
I don’t meet his gaze. It’s like everything I knew about the world was ripped in half. Under any other circumstances, barring serious physical injury, I’d be out there right now gettingrevenge. How dare the fucking Russians hit a Whelan wedding? Those piece of shit rats should be ashamed of themselves. There’s no way they should have the audacity for a hit like that.
Which begs a lot of questions I’m not asking.
But now I don’t want to go stalking through the night with a grudge and a gun.
My place is here, in this apartment, and it’s unnerving. I’ve never been this man before, and I’m not sure I know how.
Finn leaves after a few minutes. I fuss in the kitchen, cleaning up, doing anything to avoid going back into that bedroom. The shower water stops running and I know I should go talk to her, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
What the hell am I going to say?
Sorry you almost got murdered, babe.
God, this is fucking pathetic. How emotionally broken does a man have to be to not know how to comfort his woman?
But it’s true: I have no god damn clue what to say to her.
I cast back in time, trying to remember what it was like for me in those early days, but I can’t recall a time when violence wasn’t a part of my daily life. What do I say to a girl who’s been so damn sheltered all this time?
After a few more minutes, I can’t keep putting it off. She’s out of the shower, but still in the bedroom. I have to do what’s right, do my duty as her husband, and fucking check on her. I run through scenarios in my head:Hey Regan, you all good? Totally cool over that near murder? Solid? No issues? Sick, I’ll be out here, goodnight.
I linger with my hand on the doorknob and realize this is the most nervous I’ve been in a long time.
I don’t even get like this before a hit job.
Killing’s easy: aim, pull the trigger, clean up after. Screaming, blood, pain, that’s all familiar.
But a scared wife?
God, this is worse than getting shot at.
I force myself into the room, heart racing, and find Regan sitting on the edge of the bed. She’s wearing the sweats I left out for her, the sleeves rolled up. Her hair’s wet and her eyes are fixed on the wall, unmoving, and she doesn’t seem to register I’m there. I watch her, my mouth open to say something, but I can’t find any words.
Her expression is blank. There’s nothing behind her eyes. Her shoulders are rounded and her fists are clenched between her knees like she’s struggling to hold herself together.
