Page 82 of Ruthless Reign

I could see Hardin’s face turning progressively more and more red as she spoke, but like she requested, he didn’t speak until she seemed to be finished. But I suspected there was even more she hadn’t quite gathered up the courage to spill yet.

Hardin looked at her with enough acid to eat away at the heart of even the strongest man. “You don’t get to decide what’s important,” he said slowly, each word carefully selected. “You do not get to put yourself at risk to save us from worry.”

“He’s right,” I agreed. “The instant you knew that Séamas was aware of your connection to Damien you should’ve told us. And as soon as you figured out who Aodhán was—or even just suspected it—we should’ve known.”

Hardin cursed, muttering something to himself as he ground his teeth behind his lips.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

She didn’t have to say it for me to see it in her eyes. To feel it. She would never lie to us again. Never keep anything from us. I could tell. This was a hard lesson, but she’d learned it.

“No more lies,” she promised as if reading my mind.

When her eyes met mine, I gave her a small smile. “You know we would’ve gone anyway.”

“What?”

“To the meet. Even if you had told us all about this Aodhán guy and that he said something was off or whatever. We still would’ve gone. And you still would’ve stayed. It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

She looked at me dubiously, but I wasn’t just saying it.

I waved a hand toward Hardin for him to confirm it, and he grunted his grudging agreement. “So, this isn’t your fault. But maybe we can use it.”

Her brows lowered.

Hardin balked, giving me a sour look. “He would’ve cleared out of the house on Frederick Drive by now.”

I shook my head, trying to string together the frayed edges of thoughts fighting through the exhaustion, blood loss, and the sedative still wearing off in my veins from surgery.

“Do you trust him?” I asked Becca, earning myself identical looks from her and Hardin. “Do you trust Aodhán?”

“He shot you,” Becca replied, deadpan.

I made a noncommittal sound, tipping my head from side to side. “Didn’t kill me, though, and I think…I think maybe it was on purpose.”

“What?” Hardin said, the single word a whip cracking clean across the room. “Take a fucking nap. We’ll talk when you?—”

“No,” I said, the forced tone making the ache in my chest bloom. I grimaced. “Just hear me out for a goddamned second, okay?”

His cheekbones flared, but he leaned back against the wall, waiting with his arms crossed.

“At the meet, when Séamas told us to give up the guns—I thought maybe I was imagining it—but I was so sure he mouthed the word ‘don’t’ to me. Like he was warning us not to do it. And then after, just before he finally raised his weapon to fire, he clenched his fist at his side.”

Hardin tipped his head to one side, considering.

“I’m sorry, why does that matter, exactly? About his fist?” Becca asked, turning in her chair to face me.

“It’s the sign for telling someone to ‘hold.’ Not to move,” I explained.

Something passed over Becca’s face.

“He wasn’t lying,” she said, mostly to herself.

“What do you mean?”

“He said that he never misses,” she explained. “When I…saw him earlier.”

Hardin pushed off the wall. “When you fucking what?”

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