“Then let’s make some breadcrumbs.”
Yes, let’s.
I go out into the garden and take a seat beside her. She offers me a smile, but it lacks her usual warmth. Still, there’s that sadness in her eyes that I can’t seem to unsee. Is it something that I did? Or is it something unshakable from the life she’s had to live.
I take her hand in mine and she allows me to curl my fingers around hers, even giving mine a gentle squeeze.
“You doing okay, angel?”
She nods. “Yeah. It’s so nice out today, isn’t it?”
I hum my agreement, watching her intently. “I need to go on another trip next week.”
“Again? But you only just got back?”
I rub the pad of my thumb over the back of her hand. “I know. But it will be a short one. I have a meeting in New York I need to attend next Thursday.”
Her slender throat works as she swallows. “I’ll miss you.”
Will she really?
“Come here, baby.” I tug her onto my lap and she comes willingly, letting me wrap my arms around her while she buries her head against my chest. For whatever reason, my girl is sad. Maybe it is because she had a taste of freedom and she wants more. And if that’s the case, I’m going to have to figure out a way to give her some so I don’t lose her.
I rest my chin on the top of her head. “You know we never did get those chickens.”
She laughs softly. “Because Pierre would probably cook them for dinner.”
I laugh too, gripping her tightly against me. “I love you, Imogen.”
She snuggles closer. “I love you too, Linc.”
Jesus, my heart just fucking shattered. Why the hell am I testing her again? Because I’m a suspicious fuck who can’t trust that someone as incredible as her could love someone as fucked-up as me. I should say fuck the breadcrumbs. Tell her I won’t go on my fake trip next week. Because I want to do nothing but lie in bed, and sit in the garden, or the library or on the sofa, with her. Talking with her. Kissing her. Fucking her. Loving her.
But I don’t. The wheels are in motion, and I have to see this through.
Chapter 62
Lincoln/Killian
18 years earlier
Wind rushes against my ears and the driving rain blurs my vision, but I gun the throttle anyway, pushing the Kawasaki to its limits. Adrenaline and fear race like lightning through my veins.
When I get to the place I lost his signal, my tires screech to a halt and I jump off the motorcycle, letting it topple to the ground. The door to the safe house is ajar, hanging from one hinge. A gust of wind causes it to smash violently against the interior wall.
And already I know I’m too late.
My racing heart tries to clamor out of my throat while my blood thunders loudly in my ears. I run down the hallway, my wet boots slipping on the linoleum floor. There’s a body in the hallway, his eye protruding from his socket and half his head blown off—another one with a knife in his neck.
Pawns no doubt, sent to kill a Rook. They failed, but I have a sinking feeling that whoever else was with them didn’t.
Another body is slumped against the basement door, blood oozing from his eye sockets. I make my way to the kitchen and my racing heart stops beating. More bodies, and in the midstof them all, the man responsible for killing them all—the man I call my brother.
Luca DeMotta is sitting up against a cupboard. Deep red blood streaked across the floor and white plywood doors paints the macabre picture of his effort to get to the medicine cabinet. Bandages and rubbing alcohol are strewn around him, bloody handprints marring all the packets although none are open.
He holds his hand to his throat, thick ribbons of blood trickling through his fingers.
I crouch down beside him. “Luca!”
