Ava blinked at him, uncomprehending. “What?”
He glanced away from her, eyes falling to the plate, his long lashes curled against his cheeks. Pretty lashes for a man. As black as the rest of his hair. “You’ve done nothing but take care of me for two months.”
“Well I wouldn’t say nothing. I do brush my teeth and shower.”
“You know what I mean,” he said, sharply, eyes cutting back to her. “Looking after me – that’s what you do now. That’s your life.”
She made an exasperated sound. “For right now, yeah. But not forever. Mercy, you got hurt, and I’m your wife. Of course I’m going to take care of you. Do you think I shouldn’t?”
No answer.
“Let me tell ya,honey,” she said mockingly, “you’ve made it as difficult as possible. Where the hell did this touchy, grumpy teenager come from? I want my lusty Frenchman back. Any chance he’ll make a return appearance?”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I!” She shoved her hair back. “I have tried…God, Mercy, I’ve tried all this time, to get you well, because at this point, I don’t know what’s going to bring you back to me. You’re not you.” The tears welled again and she blinked them back. “Why is this happening? What did I do wrong?”
He blinked too, and swallowed again; the movement in his throat looked like it pained him. “Ava–”
“No, I want to know what the problem is. What is so wrong that you don’t even want to look at me? You haven’t touched me–” She couldn’t make herself say it because it hurt too badly to realize: He hadn’t touched her, not carnally or casually, aside from the most basic and necessary contacts. “Don’t you get it?” she whispered. “We’re free! Larsen’s dead. The Carpathians are finished. Mason and Ronnie are dead and Mason’s dad is gonna doso muchtime in jail. Mercy.” She dashed at her eyes. “It’s you and me now, and we don’t have anything to run from anymore.We’re free,” she repeated. “So why don’t you want to love me anymore?”
She watched the pain spread upward, from his throat to his face, pulling hard at all the sharp angles of bone, bringing a bright, glittering light into his eyes. “My little girl.” His voice was thick. “That’s not it. You know it isn’t.”
She lifted her brows, inviting him to explain.
Again, he glanced away from her, and then came back, gathering the words he wanted to use. “I have the same nightmare every night. Every night, when I throw you off the bike, you hit your head. Hard. And you’re unconscious. And then, after Larsen and his boys kill me, they come for you, and they…” He shook his head. He didn’t have to say what they did. They both knew what would have happened had she blacked out.
“But that didn’t happen,” she said, voice gentling, as understanding dawned. She stepped in closer to him, between his spread legs, and reached to brush a stray hair back along the crown of his head. “I wasn’t hurt that badly. And I got to Larsen before he got to either of us.”
He tried to smile, but it faded quickly, his expression anguished as he tilted his head back and stared up at her. “I’ve sworn, for years and years, to protect you. That’s what I do. Forget pliers and fingernails – what I do best is keep you safe. At least, it used to be.”
“Merc–”
“I killed those bastards the night they came into your room. I saved you when I needed to. Ileft youwhen I needed to,” he added in a whisper. “Mason and Ronnie – handled. It’s what I do,” he repeated. “It’s the best, maybe the only good thing I’ve done in my whole miserable life, keeping a special little girl safe.”
She felt the burn of tears again, as they fought for release.
“And then I took you to New Orleans,” Mercy continued, the pain raw and quivering in his voice, “and I introduced you to monsters, and I told you horrible things, and I almost got you killed.
“I don’t even begin to know how to apologize for that. To atone for it.
“I was supposed to keep you safe, and I failed.”
When he went to duck his head, she caught the hard planes of his jaw in her hands and tipped his face to hers again, saw the wetness of tears standing in his eyes. She wanted to collapse, fall against him and cry into his throat until there was no more anguish left to shed. But instead she sniffed and forced a watery smile and said, “But why does it have to be one-sided all the time? Don’t I get to keep you safe sometimes? Is it not okay for me to protect the person I love most in the world?”
His jaw clenched inside her hands. “No,” he said, but it was a weak, emotional protest, and she knew it.
She said, “ ‘Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.’ ”
His brows lifted, startled. “Brontë.”
“You were wrong about something,” she said. “About it hitting me later. About me being in shock.” She shook her head. “Killing Larsen wasn’t a horror. The idea of losing youwas. Don’t paint me in such a pure light,” she said, one hand dropping to his chest, pressing over the tattoo of her teeth against his heart. “I’ve got some of that soul in me. There’s nothing too terrible to contemplate when it comes to you, my darling monster.”
His hands at her waist pulled her in tight, so that her forehead pressed down against his, so they could struggle against the tears together.
“I’ve got something else to tell you,” Ava said. Something she hadn’t wanted to tell him while he was stewing in his own guilt and anger. She reached down for one of his hands, guiding it beneath her sweater, and pressed it to the skin of her stomach, down low, urging his fingers into the waistband of her jeans, so they’d be in just the right place.
He sucked in a breath; his fingers flexed lightly against her belly, pressing, like he was searching for what was still too small for either of them to feel. It was his voice, the wonder in it, the way it choked, that sent the tears spilling over her lashes, finally, and down her face. “You are?”
