His jaw tightened, the weight of everything unsaid between them filling the space like a vacuum. He looked at her, really looked at her, and something flickered in his eyes—pain, regret, something else. “You’re right,” he said finally. “I should’ve told you.”
Her throat tightened. “Why didn’t you?”
He hesitated, then finally said, “Because I made her a promise, and I didn’t think it mattered. The night with her didn’t mean anything to me. The morning did, but I didn’t kill Hank. You know that.” His voice turned rough, raw. “Then you and I happened so fast, and I figured we had a clean slate. We both know I didn’t kill Hank, so why break a promise? Because my night with you mattered. Completely.”
“You could’ve trusted me.”
He levered back slightly. Barely. But enough. “Yeah, I could’ve with that.”
With that.
“It’s always going to be between us,” she whispered. Tears burned the backs of her eyes, but she forced them back. She wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not now. “Whoever killed Hank. That’s always going to be between us. We both know it.”
His hand lifted like he wanted to touch her but stopped halfway. “Not if we don’t let it.”
She swallowed hard. “I don’t trust you.”
“Yeah, you do. I fucked up by not telling you about Monica, but you trust me.”
Did she? God, she couldn’t think. “What else are you keeping from me?”
“Nothing. You have my word.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.” Yeah, she aimed to hurt with that one. “Now, I want to go to Flossy’s.”
He tucked his thumbs in his jean pockets. “No.”
Her head snapped up. “Excuse me?”
His green gaze bore into her. “I said no. In case you forgot, somebody has been shooting at you. You’re in danger. Right now, you can barely stand, much less defend yourself. So you’re staying here until you get some sleep. You can have the guest room.”
She couldn’t argue with his logic, even though she wanted to kick him in the head. “Fine. It better have a lock.” She strode past him to the hallway, heading into the guest bedroom, which did, indeed, have a lock.
She’d figure out if she should arrest him or just shoot him after a few hours of sleep. Yeah. Good plan.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The smell of bacon awoke Ophelia from a dream where she'd found herself running through thick snow between ominous trees, chasing something. Or someone? She liked the idea that she chased instead of fled in the dream.
Yawning, she stretched and then caught herself, looking around. Brock’s house felt like home. Then she remembered the day before.
He’d lied to her. By omission, anyway.
Yeah, in the light of the morning, she could see his point of view. He didn’t want to hurt David or Monica…and things had progressed quickly with Ophelia.
Could she move past that?
Could he if she arrested one of his brothers?
Did she even want to try? Never in her life had she felt like this with a man, safe and slightly irritated, and she knew to her soul that he was a good man. Loyalty did matter. She forced herself out of bed to the attached bathroom, noting her hair was a tangled mess around her face.
A packaged toothbrush was next to a travel sized tube of toothpaste, and she used both before washing her face and quickly braiding her now wild hair down her back. Her phonebuzzed and she looked down to see that the warrant to hold Wyatt Yankovich had been granted by a federal judge. Excellent. She’d drop by the hospital after meeting with Monica and execute the warrant.
It was time Wyatt spoke with her again. Oh, she couldn’t force him, but being served with a warrant usually did the trick.
Feeling like she finally caught a break, Ophelia padded barefoot on the cold wooden floor out the room to find Brock in the wide kitchen setting out two plates on the round table near the back door.
“Morning,” he said, his gaze a dark green. “Coffee?”
