“Shh.” I kiss him again.
“I’m sorry it had to be this way.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
“I wanted to trust you so much, Tate. More than anything, I wanted it to be different with you. I used to keep everyone from getting close to me.” He winces. “I had a hotel suite and… the only time I’ve been there since we met was to be alone. And I hated myself more than ever when I went. I never want to set foot in it again. I… wanted to trust you…”
I press a finger to his lips. “You could have trusted me. But we’ll never know how things might have been now, because you didn’t.”
He pulls my hand away, his pupils flaring. “I was too scared to try. It could have blown up in our faces. I’ve woken up thinking it’s just another day, and then witnessed my life get torn apart in front of me and been unable to do a fucking thing to stop it. I’ve seen destruction. I’ve lived in nightmares.”
“And I’m so sorry that you have. I really, truly am. I’m not saying it to be hurtful. It is what it is. And I understand why you didn’t tell me.”
“I had to protect Molly at all costs. And I was scared of what it would do to me if you left. Even if you never told anyone. Just the thought of you leaving us, I…”
I kiss him again, silencing the wounded noise that rumbles from deep inside his chest.
It’s heartbreaking seeing him like this. But it finally makes sense. Why he pushed me away like he did. Why he told me he couldn’t love me the way he wanted.
Why he encouraged me to walk out of their lives and live my own.
It all makes sense. But answers don’t make it any less tragic.
I pull back and look into his bloodshot eyes. “When did you last sleep properly?”
“The last time you were here,” he confesses in a voice so quiet I swear my heart disintegrates.
I stroke back the dark hair from his eyes.
“We should do something about that.”
It’s growing light outside, spilling a thin crack of sunshine through the drapes in Sullivan’s bedroom. I press a kiss to his forehead, making him stir. His exhaustion won over the moment we climbed onto his bed. He’s still wearing his shirt and suit pants.
Nothing happened.
He spent the night sleeping with his head resting on my chest.
I spent the night awake, watching him frown and mutter as his dreams tormented him like demons in the dark.
“Tate?” he murmurs sleepily, his arm tightening around my waist.
I check my watch. It’s almost six a.m.
“It’s okay,” I soothe, extracting myself from his grip and climbing gently from the bed.
He looks at me. I smile softly and he smiles back. But neither of us speak.
There’s nothing to say. Not right now.
Sullivan told me the truth, because Natasha died, and he was freed of the fear of her taking Molly. I meant every word I said about understanding why he chose to do things the way in which he has.
But it doesn’t make it any easier.
He’s told me the truth because now he can.
And as freeing as that might be. It’s also made something else glaringly obvious.
Sullivan Beaufort needs to grieve. For his brother, his mother.
