We take off toward a side street and merge onto the West Side Highway.
And come to a dead stop.
It’s bumper to bumper, and red brake lights stretch like a snake into infinity.
I sink into my seat, heart still rattling from the last twenty-four hours. I half-expect Rhys to explode in rage, turn this Audi around, and go back to sleep for a week.
But he doesn’t.
He just exhales calmly, like it’s the best thing in the universe to be stuck here with me.
“Let’s listen to some music while we crawl to Ashbourne.” He reaches over and flips on the radio.
A cheery male voice croons,Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus…
Rhys grins. Actually grins. He takes my hand and lifts it to his lips. Laughing, he kisses my knuckles.
Then he starts singing along. Off-key. It’s deep and rough and ridiculously sincere.
“We are going to be really late, but I don’t care!” I raise my hands and start singing the next song.
We laugh, the sound cracking out of me like a spark of sunlight.
“Hey, look.” Rhys points. “Traffic opens up after we get past that dosser blocking the right lane.”
“Yay,” I say sardonically, preferring to keep this stolen time with Rhys when he’s not off doing scary assassin stuff.
And I’m not marking and updating the calendar.
The traffic fades. The fear fades. The last twenty-four hours of smashed plants, dead bodies, and betrayals all fade away.
More holiday music fills the car, and Rhys’s thumb strokes over my palm. It feels perfect.
Daddy can be tough, but I think he’ll love Rhys. Man to man. He’s a better man than Kosta. Daddy will see that.
Then the dread sets in…
What if he doesn’t?
Chapter 44
Rhys
The temperature drops as we drive north to Westchester. Ashbourne is old money glorified by sprawling colonials with tall black iron gates that scream power. As soon as we cross the border into the county just north of Manhattan, Fallon goes quiet.
I hear her breathing turn ragged over the chimes of holiday music on the radio. She’s been smoothing her velvet dress over and over, the fabric crushed. Her lips move as she counts something under her breath.
One, two, three. On her fingers. The charms on her necklace. The buttons on her coat. Her knees knock together next, also in counts of three, watching the sign for the town of Ashbourne grow closer through the windshield.
“You okay, Fal?” I say, cringing because everything tells me she’s anything but okay.
“Sure,” she says, her voice wary.
Fuck. I don’t press because it’s up to her to communicate with me. If we’re going to have a shot at making this real relationship work, I need her to use her words. Or any other form of communication. I don’t care if she turns mute. I’ll learn ASL for her.
“Is Christmas tough for you without your mum?” I say, already breaking my rules. “Mom.”
“My mother died when I was young.” She looks down and then out the window. “I don’t have too many memories of her.”
