His gray eyes are soft in the darkness, full of understanding.
"You didn't let anyone down," he says. "You chose yourself. That's not selfish." His hand cups my face. "The people wholove you? They want you to be happy. And if fashion makes you happy, then that's exactly where you're supposed to be."
I don't realize I'm crying until he brushes the tears from my cheeks.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"For what?"
"For understanding. For not making me feel like I have to justify my choices."
He pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "You never have to justify anything to me, Dalla. I just want you to be you. Whoever that is."
I burrow into him, feeling something in my chest crack open.
This man—this complicated, dangerous, unexpectedly tender man—sees me in a way no one else ever has.
And I'm starting to think I might be able to fall in love with him… but he’s only here for a while.
Only here to watch me, because he’s assigned to me.
But, I don’t want to think about any of that.
Outside, somewhere past the gates, a dark sedan waits in the shadows.
But in here, in his arms, I'm safe.
CHAPTER SEVEN
RJ
I call Da at six in the morning, Florida time.
That makes it eleven in Dublin—late enough that he'll be awake, early enough that he won't be buried in Brotherhood business.
I slip out of bed carefully, leaving Dalla warm and sleeping, and take my phone to the basement common area.
The concrete floor is cold under my bare feet.
The clubhouse above is silent, that strange hush that settles over places in the hours before dawn.
I settle onto the worn couch and dial.
He answers on the second ring.
"RJ." His voice is gruff, familiar. The same voice that taught me how to shoot, how to fight, how to survive. "I was wondering when you'd check in."
"Been busy."
"So I've heard." There's a note of amusement in his tone. "Doran's been talking. Says you've gotten... close to your principal."
Shite.
Of course Doran's been talking.
The man's married to Dalla's twin sister—there's no way Rev hasn't been giving him updates, which means Greer knows, which means the whole bloody Mackenzie network knows.
"It's handled," I say.
