That thought stings my chest, causing an ache to form beneath my sternum. I ignore the sensation. I can’t allow a little fun with my captive to sway me. This infuriating woman can’t be a factor in my decision. For now, regardless of what I do in the end, I’ll take her offer and hope my lie is convincing.
I meet Trinity’s expectant gaze from across the room. “I accept your proposition. I want to be an Irish King.”
Chapter 26
Trinity
I can barely believe my ears. Maybe it’s a concussion, or maybe it’s the morphine. But Brody’s agreed to defect.
And his admission about Declan—that he’s not the man’s biological son—is playing tricks on my logical mind.
Brody and I have a lot in common. We both spent our lives in isolation, vying for love from families incapable of creating normal attachment bonds.
Except, Brody’s path was more difficult than mine. After Declan discovered they didn’t share DNA, he’s lucky to be alive.
We may not actually be blood related—a fact I’m immensely thankful for given our intense chemistry—but the connection I share with Brody is crystal clear.
The truth always has a way of rewriting the past.
Does our similar history contribute to the mad chemistry we share? I know all about pheromones, but has this deeper-level connection existed all along?
Brody’s eyelids grow heavy, so I walk over to the window and peer out at the desert. Sooner or later, those Russians will catch up to us. We need to flee this place. Ditch the BMW. Get to Austin.
I also need that hard drive.
I pivot and study him. His head faces me, his eyes closed. I have a strong feeling he’s not sleeping, though. Just resting. His skin remains pale.
I shake my head, guilt returning with the force of a typhoon.
For all I knew, that wound was mortal. He really could be dead.
The thought squeezes my heart and fills me with guilt. Although I’m not sure Catholic guilt adequately explains this ache.
I remind myself to let the past be in the past.
He’s alive, and I bet if I asked, he’d tell me he’s had worse injuries.
But now that I coerced that backstory out of him, I can’t unknow these truths.
I’ve already molded this newfound knowledge to the mental image I have of him that keeps evolving. Unlike Michelangelo, who chipped away at the stone until onlyDavidremained, I’m continually adding to construct my sculpture of Brody.
He’s more multifaceted than I gave him credit for.
A monster. A man. A killer. A hurting boy. A white-hot star sucking me in with the force of his gravity, no matter how much I try to stay away.
Maybe,justmaybe, I can trust this guy—this newest version of Brody—enough to tell him my truth.
Because he’s right…I probably do need him. Even if I managed to steal a car, I have no way of knowing if the Russians are on my tail. If they catch up to me, I won’t be able to contact Finn before I’m taken and probably murdered.
Despite everything he’s done, Brody represents relative safety.
The soft beeping of his heart monitor draws my attention, and my eyes follow the gentle tick of the colored lines. Thesteady beat soothes my nerves. At least he’s not in too much pain.
With his eyes closed, he looks so peaceful. Those long, dark lashes and flushed cheeks give him a younger appearance. I can envision the boy he used to be under his hardened features and years of battle scars.
In a way, he’s innocent. A victim of circumstance not unlike myself.
Did I convince him that the Irish Kings will welcome him? Doubtful. I imagine he has machinations of his own. He’s tactical to the core, after all, hopped up on painkillers or not.
