I swallowed.
“She’ll be two hours from me,” I said. “Three at most.”
“I know.”
“It’s like dangling a carrot under my nose.”
“Yes.”
I let out a rough laugh. “You admit that?”
“I’m not stupid. Malibu puts her near the charter. Near Rick and Eddie. Near people who can watch her without making her feel caged. It also puts her close enough to you that if this thing is real years from now, life can find a way.”
Years.
The word felt impossible.
“And if it isn’t?” I asked.
“Then she gets a life anyway.”
I looked down at my hands.
Ink.
Scars.
Blood that wasn’t there but always was.
“I expect better of you, Dylan,” Regan said.
That hit harder than judgment.
Judgment I could take.
Expectation was dangerous.
“Once this assignment is over,” she continued, “I think you should find yourself an old lady and forget about my daughter.”
My mouth twisted. “Your daughter.”
“My daughter,” she said without hesitation.
“She’s not even eighteen,” I said, because it was the wall I kept putting between us even when everyone knew the wall had cracks.
“I know.”
“I know I’m just a guy with ink and blood on his hands, right?” The words came out before I could stop them. “Even when I wash it off, it’s still there. I know I’m not good enough for her.”
Regan reached over and put her hand on my back.
The touch stunned me silent.
Not romantic. Not pitying. Not afraid.
Maternal, maybe.
Merciful.
