The moonlight cuts a sliver through a gap in her curtains, shining on her face and highlighting those freckles. I nearly reach out and trace my finger across her cheek until guilt squeezes my chest.
I wonder what she’d say if I came clean. If I told her I know all about her family. If I confessed I’m only here for Nolan Doyle.
She’s not naive. She doesn’t see the world through rose-colored glasses. I hear the edge in her voice and see her lips pinch whenever she talks about her father.
She holds no respect for the man.
She knows he’s dirty and wants nothing to do with him.
If she believes as I do—that right and wrong is a spectrum—maybe she’d understand my side and even help me complete this mission.
Or maybe she’d shoot me straight in the dick and send me back to New York bleeding.
I groan and shove my face into her silky pillow.
Why would she ever trust me again if she knew the truth?
I reach out, because I am just that much of a selfish prick, and caress her hair to soothe my jaded heart.
This mission is too important to risk telling her. After what my uncle did to the Kings, I can’t fail. I owe Finn this much.
I owe myself this much.
With my honor at stake, failure is not an option.
My focus has to remain on Doyle.
On using Maeve to get what I need.
And not on the slippery slide of hair between my fingers. Not on the way her sweet scent invades my nose and sits on my tongue.
Not on the way I just killed to protect her.
Not on how I’d do so again.
I’ll keep her safe at any cost. From dangers who aren’t me anyway.
That’s got to count for something.
I let that thought blanket my guilty conscience as I lay my head on the pillow beside hers and slowly drift to sleep.
Chapter 22
Maeve
I wake up so groggy that I wonder if I’m having a dream…and in the dream, I’m waking up from a dream.
My vision’s blurry, and for a hot second, I have no idea where I am.
When I try to push myself up, stabbing pain bisects my brain from ear to ear. I drop back on the pillow with a groan.
My first migraine? Is this what they feel like?
No, thank you.
I didn’t have all that much wine. Just two glasses or so of the good stuff. No way this is from the bottle of Rothschild Bourdeaux we opened.
Maybe I need to put a temporary moratorium on alcohol. This is the second time this week I’ve crawled out of bed like a zombie.
