Page 110 of Filthy Little Regrets
I fall to my knees again. “Here.” Offering him the ice pack, I search his face. I narrow my eyes when he doesn’t take it, and he reluctantly grabs it, pressing it to the shiner. It’s not the worst I’ve seen, but it has to hurt. Frowning, I hold up the wet cloth and arch an eyebrow in question.
Mace nods, the full intensity of his attention set on me as I bring the damp material to his lip.
To think I was worried he was cheating on me. I don’thave a lot of information to go on, but obviously there was a fight. Rose mentioned his past, how he was forced into it. There’s no way to know if that’s the case unless he starts talking. He hisses when I dab at the split lip. My gaze flicks up to his. “You’re covered in bruises, and a washcloth is what bothers you?”
The faintest spark crosses his eyes. “You went to the office.”
“I should have known Kyle would be a snitch,” I grumble, getting the last of the dried blood and dropping my hand to my lap. With a frown, I study him, wondering if we ever even had a chance at normal. “Did you start the fight?”
“No.”
That doesn’t give me any relief. My next question might have him shutting me out, but I need to know. “Did you...have a choice?”
The slightest recoil is the only indication that I’ve got it right. Searching my face, probably wondering how much I know, he lowers the ice pack and shakes his head. “No,” he admits, voice strained.
“What does your dad have over you?” It’s a guess, but who else could force him to fight if he didn’t want to?
Mace’s jaw muscles ripple. “He threatened to marry my sisters off to the Marinos if I didn’t fight.”
“You’re not serious,” I say, dread sinking in my gut because I know it’s true.
“I wish I was joking.” His eyes rove over my face. “He knows I’d do anything to protect them.”
My chest clenches for the little boy who never had a choice and the man forced to comply. Inching closer, I reach for the ice pack, keeping my movements slow, just in case he’s still amped up from the fight. “I assume you won?”
He averts his gaze. “No one wins in these fights.”
What does that mean? I bite my cheek to keep from asking, worried I’ll annoy him, and lift the cool gel pack to his face. Sighing, he tips his head toward it. His hands settle on my hips, drawing me closer, and tonight, I don’t fight him. I climb into his lap. As his eyes hold mine, shadows unleashed, I realize he wasn’t restraining them to protect me. He was trying to bury them to protect himself. I meet his demons head-on, scouring through the unspoken words, snaring on the last thing he said.
No one wins in these fights.
Does that mean...swallowing around the lump in my throat, I try not to choke as I ask, “Did they deserve it?”
His eyebrows press in, betraying his surprise that I’ve figured it out so quickly, but I’ve done some research. There are a few underground fighting scenes, and a few of them have one rule. To win, you live. From what little I know about Darius, I wouldn’t put it past him to force that upon his son, which makes me hate him even more.
Mace’s fingers press into my hips to keep me in place for what he says next. “Yeah, baby. They deserved it.”
His tone is so raw, I believe him. This would be enough evidence for the FBI to bring him in for questioning, but I lock the confession away, refusing to use a wound that’s been festering since childhood against him.
His features harden, preparing for my judgment, and my chest clenches. He did it to protect his sisters. It’s not like he went out and killed someone for fun. He’s clearly not happy about it. Guarded, he watches me carefully, and it’s then I realize that tonight I have the one thing I’ve been fighting to acquire.
Power.
My reaction could change everything, but I’m not that cruel. Mace needs for better or worse. His wife. Acceptance.My insides twist. “If they deserved it,” I begin, setting the ice pack on the floor and threading my fingers through his hair, “then I’m glad you did it.”
Mace encloses me in his arms, burying his head against my chest and releasing a heavy exhale. My heart wobbles. I wrap my arms around him, running my nails along his neck as tension slowly bleeds from his body. There are no tears—Mace isn’t the type—but the way he all but clings to me as he simply breathes is its own sort of release.
The FBI wants to find evidence of the Astors and Marinos working together, but who says it has to be Mace?
He gathers his strength, stands with me weightless in his arms, and carries me to bed to renew a vow I’ve been running from. My back hits the mattress. I open my arms, legs falling apart in invitation. Mace crawls on top of me, caressing my body as if I’m the key to his salvation, like every stroke of his tongue against mine absolves him of his sins. Our bodies move together, perfectly in sync. Mace holds me as he drives into me, eyes set on mine, waiting for me to look away, to keep running. Searching for a rejection.
I stare right back, never more certain of anything in my life.
I can’t betray him.
Saturday arrives with clouds and rain. Mace is dead to the world when I wake up. The bruises on his face look worse now, but at least he’s resting. I quietly slip out of the bed, tug on the T-shirt I stole from him, and make my way to the kitchen. The house is quiet. The cleaning staff and maintenance workers are most active during the week. SometimesChef is here on the weekends, but her niece had some dance recital this weekend, so today, it’s just me and Mace.
Probably for the best.
