The request shatters what’s left of my heart and I kiss her. Light. A sipping taste of her mouth that she opens for. Slips herfingers through my hair and holds me to her like she needed that as much as I did.
“You can be anywhere I am,mon p’tit,”I assure her. “You need never ask.”
Cool fingers drift down to brush the side of my stubbled face. The pad of her thumb ghosts the bottom curve of my mouth.
“Can I stay with you again tonight?”
Without taking my eyes off hers, I turn my lips into the palm of her hand. “I would like that.”
The hint of her old smile touches the corners of her lips, but it’s gone before I can be sure.
“Would you like me to leave while you shower?”
With the greatest care, I slip my hand beneath the sheets and lightly cradle the warm curve of her hip. Not to be suggestive. Not to initiate anything. Simply to hold her.
“I’d rather you joined me.”
It does not sip my mind that she’s grieving. That her need for companionship and contact stems from years of having two men perpetually present. Always touching her. Always holding her. Even at night, they were with her. She would not be in my arms, soft body pressed into mine if my sons were still here, nor would I have touched her.
Not once in the seven years since my return have I made any inappropriate advances. I kept my feelings bottled and tucked away even when it bubbled so close to the surface I could taste it.
She belonged to them and I accepted that.
Even now, I know it’s not me she wants. Not truly. It’s the idea of someone who looks like them. Someone real and alive to hold her down when she feels adrift. The idea of being a placeholder would frustrate a lesser man, especially given the magnitude of my feelings for her, but I accept my new role. I embrace my new place in her life in whatever capacity she requires. That is all Ihave ever wanted — to be needed and holding the power to solve her problems.
Gingerly, I brush back the sheets and scoop her up. It doesn’t slip my notice that she barely weighs anything, and I make a mental note to make sure she eats.
Still, she says nothing as I walk with her to the washroom.
An ocean of dark, gleaming marble kisses the bottom of my feet as I leave the plush carpet for the icy stone. Early morning light spills through arched windows overlooking the glass and marble tub built beneath the view of the gardens below. The narrow path lined with the wood and granite sink on one side and an entire wall of mirrors on the other, veers through a set of high, carved pillars that leads into my closet.
I take Lenora to the tub. I set her on the chilly edge and reach for the onyx faucet. Water splashes into the steep basin, joined by the generous helping of my favorite bourbon and oak bath oil.
“Was it them?”
The question is asked softly, barely audible over the roar of running water, but it reaches me with blatant accuracy.
I straighten and reach for a towel to dry my hands.
“Yes.”
Her big eyes watch me.
“Who?”
The cloth is tossed back over the gold bar bolted into the glass wall.
“Officially, the report says it was a gang fight that got out of hand and the boys were caught in the crosshairs.”
“And unofficially?” she whispers.
I exhale slowly, wishing she would stop watching me with such intensity, like I’m singlehandedly keeping her alive with my words.
“Augustus and Bernard Duval. Witnesses saw them take the shots.”
Her fingers bunch together tight enough to turn her knuckles into white peeks.
“Why?”
