Page 47 of Death Kiss

Folding over, I lay my head on my hands, still folded around his. It takes time to see past the recurring bubbling anger, but I work on seeing the good. Not just the sex, which is obviously a huge plus point, but the soft moments too. The way he brings me coffee in bed so my feet don’t have to get cold. The tenderness he showed Reggie even when the cat treated him like a spare part. The way he treats me like I’m so precious no matter what we’re doing. He let me into his past and trusts me to be his future. Our silly moments when some stupid joke makes us laugh until we cry. There hasn’t been enough of that in the past few weeks.

What if he wakes up with that part of him lost? If I have to mourn a man who’s physically there, but I can’t reach his soul. The very idea eviscerates me.

I need him.

His hand twitches in mine, not for the first time—reflexes, apparently—but I still glance up at him anyway.

Among the stitches, bruises, and swelling, one eye is open.

‘Oh my god, Liam,’ I breathe, hardly daring to hope.

‘Kat, baby.’ His voice is broken and hoarse, barely a whisper. It’s the most beautiful sound I’ve heard since the first words he said to me.

‘I’m here.’ I press the call button, needing someone to come look at him and confirm this isn’t a dream. That he’s actually back.

The doctor is swift and to the point. Flashing lights in his open eye and asking questions. Liam answers the medical ones but stays tight-lipped about what happened. He’s got a significant concussion and two cracked ribs, multiple stitched wounds and bruises. The doctor tells him he suspects Liam was hit by a car or beaten twenty shades of hell. The lack of broken limbs leads him to think Liam’s pissed someone off real bad and that they should call in the police.

‘No police,’ Liam grunts.

‘Then you better stop doing whatever you’re doing to piss people off before you end up in the ground.’ The doctor says.

Or a well.

When the doctor leaves, I slide my chair closer to the head of the bed, ready to give him the third degree.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks, clearly seeing that I look like I’ve slept in a plastic chair for days.

‘I think you’re the one we’re worried about here. What the fuck happened?’

‘Is my phone here?’ Liam asks, which catches me off guard.

‘What?’

‘My phone.’

‘Yes. It’s in my bag.’ He hadn’t had it with him; he’d left it at home and plugged it into the scrolling software we use to mimic human use, just in case anyone ever tries to use our phones to prove we’re pinging near a crime scene.

‘Check my bank,’ he says, wincing as he tries to adjust his head position.

The anger creeps hot into my cheeks. ‘Why?’

‘Just check it.’

I use his passcode to log in to his banking app; there’s not a chance in hell it’s going to recognise his face at the moment.

The first transaction hits like a slap. £440000 from what looks like a betting shop.

The room tilts.

‘You fucking promised me.’ Is all I can force out between my teeth.

‘Baby…’

‘Don’t you baby me. You looked me in the eyes and promised you wouldn’t do it.’ My pulse thumps hard enough to make my head hurt. I move my chair back and toss his phone on the bed.

‘I did it for us. I wanted to be able to provide for you⁠—’

‘Don’t you make this about me. You could have fucking died, Liam. I could be putting you in the ground after everything we’ve been through. Everything we’ve done. And you’re acting like some bullshit macho man who needs to provide? We’re in this together. Or so I thought.’