He’s sitting ramrod straight at the head of the table, a scowl plastered on his face. I’ve never seen him this unyielding about anything.
He said the F-word.Twice.
I had no idea breakfast would include an interrogation. Sure, I assumed it would be awkward, maybe even contentious. Never in my wildest dreams did I suspect Noah would call us out and demand answers.
The demand isn’t unwarranted.
It’s just… not possible.
I stare at the table, at the edge where Ty’s gripping it so hard his knuckles have turned white.
The charged air is thick like honey, but there’s nothing sweet about Noah’s demeanor. His accusations linger, causing the oxygen in the room to grow heavier. Making it harder to breathe.
Swallowing, I chance another look at the man still waiting for an answer.
An answer he feels he’s owed.
An answer I can’t ever give him.
I look away quickly. Because he does deserve answers. If we’re going to do this, then he is entitled. He deserves so much more than this.
I press my lips together, a lone tear rolling down my cheek. I quickly swipe it away and swallow past the emotion clogging my throat, trying like hell to ignore the urge to open up and tell Noah everything he wants to know.
But I can’t. The potential repercussions are too great, should anyone ever discover our secret. Even so, holding back this kind of information from the man—no, men—I’ve come to trust and cherish andloveis physically painful. A burning sensation rages in my chest.
It doesn’t matter. There can be no conversation. So I suck in a shaky breath, preparing to mediate the fallout of turning him down.
Before I can formulate a response that makes any sense, Ty shifts beside me, turning to face Noah head-on.
“We shot my father.”
Shock grips my insides and my ears ring. I choke out a sob, slapping my hands over my mouth. More tears form, pouring now, blurring my vision.
“Ty,” I hiss, reaching out blindly, searching for his hand under the table.
“What did you just say?” Noah asks, brows furrowed.
Mercer sits back and crosses his arms over his chest, mirroring Noah’s position. “I heard the words, but I don’t understand.You shot your father? Please tell me that’s a euphemism.”
Ty laces his fingers with mine under the table and turns to me, swiping at the tears cascading down my face with his thumb.
He appears overwhelmed and despondent in a way I’ve never seen before. He looks young. And scared. On the cusp of defeat.
He lifts one shoulder in a shrug, the motion causing him to wince. “You trust him, mon ange. You swear he’s a good guy. That they both are. Let’s fucking see if you’re right.”
He angles in and kisses my cheek. “We’re okay,” he whispers. As he pulls back, he says, “It’s not like keeping this secret is doing us any good. I don’t see how we can ever move on if we keep operating the way we have. Not after the last few weeks. I’m done trying to keep my shit locked inside. I’ve never been any good at it anyway.”
I open my mouth to object—to tell him to take it back, to reel this in. But words fail me. And then Ty is talking again.
“We killed my father,” he repeats.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then another.
No one moves. No one breathes.
With an ominous edge to his tone, Mercer asks, “What do you mean, ‘we’?”
