Page 33 of Wicked Ruin

We go three more rounds. She lands on something neither of us hates and leaves her hand resting on the dial.

“Touch it,” she says pleasantly, “and I'll throw your charger cord out the window.”

“And I’ll pull over, find it, and make you wish you hadn’t.”

But I don't touch it.

“What happens next, Declan?” she says after a time. Her voice is quiet. Careful. “You came back from America. And I know you can't tell me everything—but whatever you found there, can it affect anything that happens here?”

I clear my throat and decide right then, I’m giving her the truth… as much as I can.

“Our family is in jeopardy. Our safety. So what happens next,” I say carefully, “is that my cousin arranges for me to marry someone to secure our allegiances and fortify us for what’s coming.”

She goes very, very still. I feel the exact moment when she decides not to react, like I’m wedded to the small internal click of her decision. I feel the way her fingers go still before she slides her hand out from under mine.

“Who?” she asks. Just the one word, but it's loaded.

“Don't know yet.” I say it as steadily as I can.

“When?”

“Don't know that either. But after what I found out in Boston, I'm afraid it might be sooner rather than later.”

She doesn't say anything. Neither do I. We both leave the obvious thing unspoken: It won't be her. It can't be. She has nothing to offer that Seamus McCarthy would say yes to. He's not in the business of mending hearts—he's in the business of mending lives. And lives, in our world, are measured in alliances.

“So we’re on borrowed time,” she says after a moment. “As… as friends. Your wife won’t want to share you.”

I don’t answer. She’s not wrong.

“I have a question for you.” She's tapping her knee nervously. Her nails are long, painted white, with little sparkles on them. They're entirely, ridiculously her.

“What's that?” I ask.

“It's more of a confession, actually.”

“Go on, then.”

“I was lying,” she says. “When I said I didn't remember the kiss.”

The car purrs.

“I want you to kiss me again,” she says. “Before they seal your fate with whoever the hell they choose. Before everything changes. I just—I want that. One more time. Just once. Is that wrong?”

So I act before logic talks me out of it.

I pull the car over onto a vacant street and cut the engine. She's gone soft and thoughtful beside me, looking at her hands. Then she looks up at me—and that's it. That's all it takes.

I unbuckle her seat belt, then mine. I reach for her, and she comes, easy and right, settling into my lap like she was built for it, like this is the most natural thing, which it is. Which it has always been.

I take my time. I breathe her in. I don’t want to ever, ever forget this.

“Christ,” I groan. “What are you wearing?”

“Perfume,” she says with that little smile. “Supposed to make men wild.”

“Worth every fucking penny, but if you wear that around any other goddamn man…” Then I kiss her.

Slow. Unhurried. Like I have all the time in the world, even though I don't—as if this moment is the only one that exists, even though it isn't. Every argument I've ever made against Bridget Kavanagh dissolves. There's only her, warm and real in my arms, and she fits so perfectly it's almost unbearable.