Page 57 of Sin of Love
He glances in the rearview, like he’s done every five seconds for the last mile. “Not yet. But when the dust settles and people start asking questions, we need to be gone.”
I stare out the window, my arms tightening reflexively around the woman in my lap.
“Do you think she…”
Killed someone?
“We have no idea what happened, so don’t write stories. But if she did kill Marco Lazcano—or hell, even if she failed—you should find a new country to live in.”
Deirdre stirs, lifting her chin. Her eyes blink open, hazy but alert. “He’s right. Take me somewhere cold, Gideon. I’m tired of the heat. And throw this out the window, please.”
Her voice is odd—words strung together without feeling behind them—but it still brings tears to my eyes. I take the gaudy diamond ring she’s holding up, crack the window, and toss it into the darkness.
“Whatever you want, mon bijou. Whatever you need. Anything.”
She doesn’t react to me calling her my treasure. No flicker of awareness, no emotion at all. Her eyes track to the man in the driver’s seat.
“Thank you. How did you know I’d need that medication?”
He glances at her. “Heard some rumors about how Lazcano treats his female guests. Figured it was worth packing just in case.”
“Ah.” She watches him another few moments, then turns to stare out the window into the darkness beyond. “I’m going to be very sick in a few hours.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’ll be with you the whole time. I won’t leave you, I promise. We’ll get through this.”
She doesn’t answer. I look down, my heart squeezing at the sight of her closed eyes and slack features.
“Gideon, listen to me,” murmurs Liam. “I know you love her, and I know you want her back to the woman she was, but you need to understand there’s a long road ahead—”
“I know,” I interject. “Whatever happens, I’ll deal with it. Whatever help she needs, I’ll give it.”
“That’s the thing, boyo. What if she needs something you can’t give her?”
“Fuck you.”
Liam sighs. “Fair enough. Word of advice, though?”
“What?” I snap.
“The tighter you hold her, the more she’ll think of you as another jailer.”
His words hammer nails into my gut. “What do I do? I can’t let her go. She needs me.”
“Yes, she does. So give her everything she asks for, but don’t ask for anything in return. You cannot need anything from her, do you understand? She’s been emotionally and physically tormented for months. She needs time to heal and the space to do it. Therapy, if she’s willing, and connection with others who know what she’s been through.”
My stomach turns; tears burn my eyes. The weight of what’s facing us bears down, shortening my breath.
“Whatever she needs,” I repeat, then wince as I shift in my seat. The left shoulder of my gray T-shirt looks black. “I’m not going to bleed to death, am I?”
“Hang on, we’re not far…”
I don’t hear the rest of his sentence.
