But she’s happy right now. Content. The walls between us have been coming down slowly, and tonight she looks at me like she’s starting to trust me with more than just her safety.
It can wait until tomorrow, after I figure out how to handle this, and decide what Connor’s involvement means for all of us. Because I’d rather hold onto this version of her for a little longer tonight.
The version that trusts me and doesn’t know I’m about to destroy her faith in the person she loves most.
“Come here,” I say, pulling her against me.
“What’s this for?”
“Can’t a husband hold his wife?”
She relaxes into my arms, and I breathe in the scent of her hair.
Tomorrow, everything changes. I’ll dig deeper and confront Connor about his lies. Make him tell me what his real agenda is.
And then I have to decide whether to tell Tierney the truth or protect her from it.
Either way, I’m fucked.
Because the evidence is clear: Connor Blake isn’t the victim in this story.
He’s been jerking us all around from the beginning.
And when Tierney finds out, she’s going to hate me for being the one to expose it.
25
TIERNEY
The elevator doors slide open onto the gym floor, and Bronx steps out first, checks the place is empty, then rolls his shoulders.
A few weeks ago, I would’ve avoided this togetherness completely.
This morning we woke at the same time, moved around the bathroom without getting in each other’s way, and rode down twenty floors in a silence that wasn’t hostile.
Progress, apparently.
The gym is peaceful at this hour, with the city waking up beyond the tinted windows. I head toward the free weights while Bronx veers off toward the heavy bags.
We don’t train together, but we’ve fallen into this routine where we show up and pretend the other isn’t there.
Except I’m hyperaware he’s in the same room.
I know exactly where he is without looking.
Every damn morning.
I start with a few warm-up sets, stretching out the stiffness in my shoulders, then move to the rack. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Bronx wrap his hands before he works the bag.
His movements are controlled and economical; each strike lethal. The impact of his fists against the leather echoes through the room in a steady rhythm.
I tell myself I’m studying his technique when actually I’m gawking.
A few minutes later I move over to the bench and start loading plates onto the bar.
When I lie back and settle my grip, I notice the bag has gone quiet.
A few seconds later, Bronx appears above me, stepping behind the bench.
