by Naima Simone
She braced herself for his shock, his fury, his grief. But none of those crossed his face. His hooded, hazel eyes were shuttered, the full curves of his mouth firm and flattened into a straight line. No emotion, no reaction. Just…nothing.
“Why were you afraid to tell me?” he asked. “Did you think if I knew Michael had tried to murder his father and me that I would run out of here, find him, and kill him?”
“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “But I couldn’t risk it. I didn’t have a chance to tell you then—you ran out before I could, and later… Well, later never came. And I didn’t plan on revealing his involvement to you tonight. I’ve taken so much from you already, I didn’t want to be responsible for stealing even more from you with information that would only harm you, not help. And…and,” she swallowed, glancing away from him, and blinking furiously against the sting of tears. Damn. She’d managed not to cry the entire night. Just a little while longer, and she would be out of here…and free to break down. “And maybe after you issued your bargain…maybe I didn’t want to go another five years without your touch. Even if it was just for a few short hours.”
Heat flashed in his eyes before darkening once more.
“You didn’t trust me,” he said, stating a fact. She opened her mouth, but couldn’t push a sound out. “No,” Killian insisted, a hollow note in his voice. “You didn’t trust me. Again. Back then, you didn’t give me a chance to prove that dying for the mob wasn’t worth living without you. And if I hadn’t pushed the subject tonight, you would’ve walked out holding the same secret.”
“Killian,” she breathed. But the truth of his accusation struck her in the chest like a closed fist. He was right. Part of her hadn’t trusted him. She could wrap it up in wanting to protect him, but now, with his stark observation shoved in her face, she could no longer deny the truth. She hadn’t trusted him. She lifted her gaze to him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He didn’t placate her with a false “it’s okay” or a meaningless “what’s done is done.” Instead, he fixed his shuttered stare on her and added, “It turns out you don’t have to worry, Gabriella. Michael is dead.”
The words reverberated through her, gaining power and volume. Shock, relief, even anger flooded her in a crushing deluge. Stumbling, she placed a hand on one of the bed’s posters, steadying herself. Dead? For how long? Had it been that night? Had she fled Boston for no reason? Had she lost years with Killian for nothing?
“How?” she croaked. “How long?”
Instead of replying, he grasped her elbow and guided her to the side of the bed. “Sit,” he softly ordered, not waiting for her acquiescence and seating her on the mattress and the tangled covers their bodies had just occupied.
“Two years ago.” He blew out a breath, and scrubbed a palm down his face. “We, me and Rion, decided to leave the O’Bannons. Sasha had just been shot, and he was down with starting over with us. Given how long we’d been in the gang, we thought Jamie would be okay with our decision.” He barked out a cutting crack of laughter. “Apparently, we were incredibly optimistic and naive. Jamie said no. And if we tried to leave anyway, he would kill our fathers and Sasha’s family since he still needed Sasha to earn money for him.”
Jamie Hughes had visited her uncle’s bar several times, and she could easily imagine the older man with his salt-and-pepper hair, leather skin, and booming, deep voice telling them they had no way out of the mob.
Bastard.
“We started talking about how to get out. And the only plan we could come up with was killing Jamie.” A bleakness entered his eyes, and it called out to her. She twisted her fingers, clenching them on her lap so she wouldn’t reach for him, offer him comfort she wasn’t certain he would accept. “By taking him out, it would throw the gang in chaos. Between people trying to find the shooter and jockeying for boss, they might not care if Rion and I left, or if Sasha was no longer doing jobs for them. That would just be two less men aiming for Jamie’s position or two less men to kill for it. That’s what we hoped anyway.”
He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his pants, his wide shoulders straightening, as if bracing himself for the rest of his story.
“We set the hit for a night when we knew Jamie would be at his office late, and he’d called in prostitutes for the boys. I volunteered to actually kill him. Rion and Sasha argued, but I’d already been to jail. Had already known that hell, and I couldn’t let them suffer that. If any of us were caught, I would go back before they would. Neither of them agreed, but I was adamant. So Sasha stayed in the club for backup while Rion and I went to the office. But…” His voice trailed off, before returning harder, rougher. “But Michael had already beat us to it. When we walked in that room, Jamie was on the floor, bleeding from a chest wound, and his son stood over him, about to deliver a head shot. When he swung toward us, I didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. Even though we had come there with the same goal in mind, I shot Michael.” He shook his head. “So maybe what you said about my loyalty to Jamie was right. And in the end, he let us out. Either that or lose the respect of his men by not honoring the request of the men who’d saved his life.”
“You wouldn’t have been able to do it,” she murmured. His head jerked up, that incisive hazel gaze pinning her in her place. But she met it, challenged it. “You’re not an assassin, Killian. Yeah, you’ve done some things in your life, but it was never out of malice or just for the hell of it. You’re not a monster, and only a monster would’ve been able to kill in cold blood.”
“But I did kill. I murdered someone,” he whispered. And the pain, the lingering horror in that low, hoarse voice, had her launching off the bed and crossing the short distance between them.
She wrapped her arms around him, locking her fingers behind his back, and pressing her cheek to his chest.
“You saved a man—a man you loved and resented. And from a son who was ready to murder his own father out of greed and hate.” She tipped her head back, stared up at him, making sure he looked down at her. Really looked and saw the truth. “You were my everything,” she breathed. “But I never looked at you through rose-colored glasses. And you never had to hide who you were from me. I saw the Killian who would leave out of the bar, ready to go on the errand his boss had sent him on. Then I saw the Killian who would later return, struggling against the darkness closing in on him. And all I wanted to do was pull you out. That was the man I fell in love with—and the one who stands in front of me now.”
Her words seemed to echo between them, “love” the loudest and most jarring. Jesus. Why had she thrown that word in there? It mocked her, and taunted her with everything she’d had—and lost. Including Killian.
As if he would ever want her in his life again. Yes, she’d finally explained the why of her actions, but that didn’t mean a what now existed for them.
Fear cascaded through her. God, she was afraid to think of a possible what now with Killian. At one time, he’d consumed her every waking moment—she risen in the morning, anxious to see him, ached to have him beside her when she fell asleep, was always hungry to have him deep inside her. Now, with the distance of time, she could see how her world had revolved around Killian. And that had been her fault, not his. But the thought of losing herself in him again terrified her. The circumstances behind her move to L.A. had been tragic, but in some ways it had been the best thing for her. She’d grown. She’d claimed her own identity. She’d become her own woman. Could she sacrifice everything—her home, her bar—for him?
Yes.
The answer resounded in her, rattling her in its strength and certainty.
She wasn’t the young woman anymore. And if it meant seeing the glow of love and not just lust in his eyes again? If it meant sharing her life with him? Then hell yes.
But…
Swallowing, she dropped her hands from him and shifted back. Killian watched her, tension entering his body.
“Can you…” She paused, gathered her courage and tried again
. “Can you forgive me?”
“Yes.”
She blinked. Rocked back on her heels. Okay. The man didn’t mince words. Then…relief so sweet, so profound soared through her, and the weight that had sat on her chest for five long years shattered. For the first time in so long, she dragged in a deep, guilt-free breath. His hawk’s gaze studied her without flinching, and she read the truth in the hazel depths.
“Thank you,” she rasped. “I—thank you.”
She thrust her fingers through her hair and glanced away from him. Let it go, a cautious voice whispered. Be grateful, and let it go. His forgiveness was more than she imagined she would leave here with. Leave it…
“Could you love me again?” Damn. It. The need to cringe, to yell, “never mind!” pummeled her, but she locked her teeth, trapping the words inside. She needed to know. One answer would devastate her, and the other would fill her with joy. But both would free her.
“Yes.” Again that stark, blunt response, and oh God, her knees liquefied. Jesus. He’d said yes— “But I can’t let myself love you again.”
The bottom plummeted from her stomach, and with a will she didn’t know she possessed, she beat back the darkness that crowded her vision. No. Don’t you faint, damn it. Stay strong.
She locked her knees, tilted her shoulders back, and forced herself to meet his eyes—those fathomless, shuttered eyes that studied her even as he eviscerated her. She closed her own, uncaring if she took the coward’s way out. Was this payback? A last infliction of punishment? Shit, the grief. The pain. It pressed down on her like tons of dirt being shoveled on top of her, burying her, stealing her air…
“I understand.” Even those two words scraped her throat raw. She had to get out of here. Before she broke down and did something she could never erase. Like beg him to change his mind. Or worse. Try to change it by offering him her body…her heart. “I should go.”
“Gabby.”
Oh damn. Did he have to use the nickname he’d refused to call her all night now?
“Do you need to walk me out or can someone else take me?” She caught the trace of panic in her hoarse voice. “Please,” she whispered. Screw pride.
He crossed the short space separating them and gripped her arms in his firm, but gentle hold. It was the gentle that pushed her closer to the edge. As if he had to be careful because he knew she was so fragile. And the pitiful part? She was fragile. Seconds from shattering in so many pieces, she wouldn’t be able to scrape them together again before leaving this place.
Hadn’t that been her fear when she’d first seen him? That he would alter her, break her? Only emotional duct tape held her together, and the ripping off of it would be hell.
“Gabby, look at me,” he rasped.
She shifted her gaze to his face. Had she thought his eyes had been expressionless? No, they burned. With anger? Frustration? An emotion he’d just denied feeling for her? She shook her head as if she could dislodge the desperate, pathetic thought.
“I don’t want to hurt you—” he said in that ruined voice.
“Then don’t,” she interrupted, jerking free of his hold. “And let me go.”
For a moment, he stared at her, nostrils flaring and muscles coiled as if he were about to spring on her. She shivered, and maybe he caught the telltale reaction, because he drew back, his aloof mask falling in place.
Not bothering with a shirt or shoes, he strode to the bedroom door, opened it, and waited silently. Ducking her head, she crossed the room and exited it. Not looking back on the place where she’d found the man she’d loved…and lost him all over again.
Chapter Eight
Killian picked up the bottle of top-shelf vodka and poured another tumbler full, ignoring the questioning look of the bartender behind the glass bar. The club didn’t open for another hour, and since it was a Saturday night, the place was guaranteed to be packed. But between then and now, he planned to take full advantage of the relative quiet and peace. Take advantage by getting enough of a buzz that when he went into the ring tonight, he wouldn’t feel any pain. He wouldn’t feel shit. Yeah, that was the plan. Feel. Nothing.
“You are being an asshole. A dumb-as-fuck asshole,” Rion muttered next to him.
Killian spared Rion a quick glance before swallowing the rest of the alcohol in his glass, savoring the burn as it rolled down his throat. Only friends—the best of friends—could get away with talking to each other like that. But the knowledge didn’t curb the rising irritation.
“Eloquent as always,” Killian bit out.
“The truth isn’t always nice or pretty,” Sasha shot back, lowering to the stool on the other side of Killian. “And you’re lucky. I made Rion hold off a few hours, hoping you’d come to your senses by yourself. But that was this morning, and you’re still here. So fuck that patience bullshit. When we see you screwing up, it’s our right to yank a rope in your ass.”
“You two are really preoccupied with my ass,” Killian sniped, but without much heat. Hell, how could he be mad with them? Not too long ago, he’d done the same thing with Rion. Shaking his head, he lifted his tumbler to his mouth. “Say it.”
“Why haven’t you gone after her yet?” Rion demanded. “Five years wasn’t enough time?”
The previous night after he’d escorted Gabriella out of the club, Killian had given them the rundown of Gabriella’s explanation. And though surprised, they had seemed to accept her reasons and forgiven her as Killian had.
“Go after her and say what?” Killian asked, fingers curling around the thick glass. The same powerlessness and sense of free falling that had gripped him in its vicious claws the night before tore into him again. “Lie? Tell her I trust her when I don’t? Just because you two have found some goddamn happily ever afters doesn’t mean everything else is going to be tied up in a neat little bow,” he growled.
“I notice you didn’t claim not to love her,” Rion pointed out.
“Love isn’t the damn problem.” Clenching his jaw, he glanced away from the men who knew him better than anyone except the woman he’d rejected the night before. “That’s the easy part,” he murmured.
“Yeah, it’s the deciding to not be a dickless wonder and letting fear rule you—that’s the tough part.” Sasha leaned forward, bracing his arms on the bar top. “And you, Killian, are being a dickless wonder, in case you missed my point.” He loosed a hard crack of laughter. “We were there, man. We saw how she wrecked you. We witnessed it all. But we also remember how you were with her. Whole. Content. Happy. Between the three of us, we could count our happy moments on one hand. And you had two years of it. Yeah, she messed up. But hell, which one of us hasn’t? Which one of us hasn’t done shit we regret, shit we wish we could erase and start over? You and Gabriella might not be able to wipe away the past, but damn it, you have a future if you have the balls to grab it.”
Killian didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Fear was a noose around his throat, choking him. He shut his eyes, as if he could block out Sasha’s words. He’d told Gabriella he couldn’t allow himself to love her again. Which was a load of shit. Because he already did…and he was afraid. The last time he’d trusted her with his heart, she’d almost destroyed him. Yes, the previous night, he’d found out the reasons she’d left Boston, left him. But the revelation hadn’t alleviated the fear of the pain—the pain that had shredded him, weakened him. And the thought of enduring that bleakness again… He shook his head. No. Already the echoes of the suffering resonated within him, and they were enough to have him shying back.
“I have to go.” He slammed the tumbler on the bar and practically leaped off the stool.
“What?” Rion asked, frowning at him, and Killian swore he glimpsed disappointment in his friend’s gaze. “Another fight? That isn’t going to solve your problems, Killian. Make the pain go away.”
“Drop it,” he barked. “Just…” He squeezed the bridge of his nose, swallowing the groan that rose in his chest like a ghost’s wail. “Just, drop it. Please.”
Dropping his arms, he met his friends’ concerned stares. “She’s gone. And I’m fine. I’m. Fine.”
Pivoting on his heel, he strode across the club and out into the cold night.
A fist drilled into Killian’s abdomen, driving the breath from his lungs like a pile driver. Shit, that’s what the blow felt like. A steel drill to his flesh.
Ben Trainor’s reputation hadn’t been an exaggeration. He was a beast.
Though Killian had a couple of inches on the fighter, solid muscle bulked Trainor’s big body like the fucking Incredible Hulk. He hit like the gamma-rayed green rage-a-holic, too.
Blood poured down from a cut over Killian’s left eye, partially blinding him. Swiping his arm over the slice, he temporarily staunched it. Just in time to block the hand flying toward his jaw. But not well enough. Trainor’s knuckles glanced his chin instead of plowing into it as the other man intended.
Damn, the pain. He stumbled back under the weight of it, knowing if he hadn’t thrown up his arm, he would be flat on his ass right now. Ducking another swing, he shot his fist out, catching the fighter in the chest. He might as well have swatted a fly. Trainor didn’t flinch. Instead he took advantage of the opening Killian had inadvertently left and slammed his own fist into Killian’s side, damn near lifting him off the cement ground of the warehouse. Stars blinked and wavered in front of his eyes as he tried to breathe through the agony.
With a grunt, Killian shifted backward.
But not fast enough. Huge, meaty hands grabbed Killian on either side of his head, and Trainer drove his knee up. Intuition or reflex—or the damn grace of God—had Killian dropping his arms, and deflecting the blow. Deflecting but not blocking. Trainor’s knee glanced off his groin.
Agony exploded low in his gut, his breath bursting from his lungs. His knees buckled, and they hit the ground. The impact reverberated in his thighs, but was swallowed up by the pain from the dirty hit. His back slammed onto the cement, and he blinked up at the dingy, gray ceiling of the warehouse, a sheet of black with swarming gold dots engulfing his vision.