Page 90 of Guilty as Sin

Even when he’s upset with me, he still values my talents, a thought that makes my self-reliant heart proud.

But my confidence vibrates against an undercurrent of dread, two magnets with the same pole struggling to coexist. No matter how hard I try to stuff down my panic, I have to keep wiping my sweaty hands on my pants. To reassure myself that I’m prepared for this fight, I run my palms over the contents of my front pockets every time.

Right pocket, left pocket.

Key, switchblade.

As soon as Brady had informed me we’d be coming here, I hurried to change out of my high-end dress into something more practical. When I pulled on these dark jeans, I felt the heavy-duty key from his nightstand drawer against my thigh, still in my pocket from the day I’d gone snooping.

The sharp metal of it comforts me now, creating a balance with my switchblade in my other pocket. Brady gave me the knife to acknowledge the violence he admires within me, and that violence quivers in readiness for tonight’s onslaught.

I wipe my hands on my pants again as the O’Sullivan patriarch issues his own orders for a simultaneous attack.

“Liam,” he says to his eldest, “send out the call. Gather every available man and take them up north. The target is Seven’s brownstone. No women or children. Vanleusen might not abide by the code, but we do.”

“Yes, Da.” Liam nods and leaves. Before the door closes behind him, Brady reappears, and my heart soars.

“Let’s go,” he says to me. “Finn—meet you at the high-rise.”

Together my husband and I rush out of the pub and into his car, and he speeds us into the night.

He zooms through red lights while other cars blare their horns at us. Brady ignores them all, his teeth grinding, his hand constantly regripping the steering wheel. It reminds me of how he acted during our stakeout, as if there’s something loathsome gnawing at him, something he won’t tell me about. He’s so focused that he misses the first opportunity to turn toward our high-rise.

Then the second.

Then the third.

My soaring heart plummets like it’s been shot from the air.

“Where are you taking me?” I demand.

“My office.” He keeps his glare straight ahead. “You’ll be safe there.”

“What the absolute fuck? You told me you’d take me to the high-rise, that I’ll defend it with you!”

“I said no such thing.”

My jaw drops, and righteous indignation flares hot inside my stomach as my mind reels. I try to think back to his exact words, but I can’t, my mind is in turmoil. The one thing I know for certain is that he wanted me to believe he was taking me back to our home.

“So why fucking taunt me like that?” I shout. “You want me to be safe, fucking leave me in the pub’s safe room.”

“If I left you in the pub’s safe room, you wouldn’t stay put.”

I open my mouth to scream at him, because it’s another goddamn riddle, another fucking mind game he’s playing with me. He knows I wouldn’t stay put in the pub’s safe room, and so he knows I won’t stay put in his office’s safe room either. Which means the two rooms must be different somehow. Slowly, I close my mouth as the realization washes over me, an ice bucket of truth.

His office’s safe room can lock from the outside.

He’s going to call it keeping me safe. But all that means is he’s going to take away my independence, to lock me away instead of letting me stand at his side like he promised.

The stupid part of me wants to weep. We were so close to being true partners, going on patrol and site visits and exchanges together.

The intelligent part of me doesn’t dwell on the past. Brady is going to lock me in his office’s safe room. I’ve seen the vault-like door, and I know it must have a heavy-duty lock.

My palms are sweating horribly now. It takes all of my willpower not to wipe my hands on my jeans.

And not to touch the heavy-duty key in my pocket.

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