Was she doing penance for not being able to do more the day he was murdered? Was she treating her memories like a memorial, constantly and lovingly tending them because it was the only way she knew to commemorate his amazing life? Or was it something more straightforward? Was she simply scared to let go? Was she holding on to Mark so tightly because she was terrified of opening her heart to the possibility of something new?
Maybe it was all of the above, and for the first time she asked herself one fundamental question: Where has it gotten me?
The answer was obvious. Nowhere.
She was thirty-two years old, unmarried, no kids, a workaholic who hadn’t met a man she was interested in sleeping with in over two years. And then there was Angel…
Strong, brave, loyal Angel.
For whatever reason, he wanted her. Saw something in her despite her disgraceful habit of comparing him to… No, not comparing. When she’d yelled out Mark’s name, she’d gone beyond comparing them. She’d actually interchanged them, consolidated them.
She cringed at the thought, then squared her shoulders and thought, Well, no more. It stops right here. Right now.
Angel wanted her to give them a chance, and by God, she would. It was time she threw off the shackles of the past and allowed herself to take another head-spinning plunge into the future and—
“For fuck’s sake.” Angel raked a hand through his hair.
Her chin jerked back at the anguish she heard in his voice. At the anguish she saw on his face in the glow of the cell phone’s screen. His impassive mask hadn’t just slipped; it was completely gone. What was in its place shook her to her core.
Something awful had happened.
She wasted no time gathering her clothes, listening as Angel said a lot of “copy thats” and “okays.” Then, she heard him ask, “And his prognosis? What do the doctors say?”
Bile gathered at the back of her throat.
Something awful had happened to someone.
She had to assume it was one of his teammates at Black Knights Inc., and her heart broke for him. Even though he had been careful to modulate his tone, hadn’t told her all that much about them, she had still picked up on how much he respected and cared for his adopted brothers-in-arms.
She was dressed and buttoning her blouse when Angel said, “Thanks. Oh, and, Emily? How did Boss take the news about Lord Grafton being Sharif Garane’s father?” A second passed as he listened to Emily’s answer. Then he made a rough sound, something between a snort and a grunt. “I agree. Time to put an end to this asshole once and for all. Okay. Talk soon.” Angel thumbed off the phone, and they were once again plunged into inky darkness.
“What happened?” she whispered.
He was a darker shadow against a backdrop of dark shadows. But she could see enough to make out his hulking form on the edge of his mat, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. She scooted next to him, putting a tentative arm around his broad shoulders, feeling the tightness of his hot, naked skin.
“One of my teammates…” He shook his head. “No. He is a civilian who got dragged into this mess, but—” He stopped again. “Not the point. The point is he was part of the team that followed the uranium supplier, hoping to be led to the remaining cache of missing canisters. But there was a shoot-out and my…whatever you want to call him.”
“Friend?” she supplied carefully.
“Yeah.” He blew out a weary breath. “Yeah, I guess maybe he is my friend. Anyway, he was wounded. Badly.”
“Oh God.” She tightened her arm around him. “I’m so sorry.”
“They got him to the hospital here in Chisinau, but the doctors are worried about his strength after so much blood loss and… Fuck!”
He fisted his hands in his hair.
“Should we go to the hospital? He shouldn’t be alone and—”
“No.” Angel shook his head. “Rusty isn’t alone. Ace and Ozzie are with him, and I don’t want to risk leaving here while Grafton is searching for us. The other team gets back from Ukraine soon. Once they do, we will figure out a new plan.” He activated the a little light on his big, black watch, checking the time. Sonya was amazed to discover it was already two o’clock in the morning. The stress of the day, not to mention vigorous, sweaty, mind-altering sex had apparently put her in a small coma earlier.
“What’s their ETA?”
“Ninety minutes or so.”
An hour and a half is a long time when someone you care about is knocking on death’s door, she thought.
She wished there was something she could do for him. Something she could say to make it better. But she knew from experience that nothing anyone said or did could make a dent in another person’s remorse and regret and that awful feeling known as helplessness. But maybe if she kept him talking…
