Page 26 of Ciaran

“I’m going nowhere,” Tanner says, looking past me to Millie. “Not until we’ve talked.”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you.” I shift my position, cutting off Tanner’s view of Millie, and hers of him. “You have two seconds before my twitchy right hand breaks your jaw.”

He glares at me while I form a fist, then he spins on his heel and marches down the street. The second he’s gone, Millie wavers, and I catch her around the waist.

“Hey, steady now. I’ve got you.”

She looks up at me, and the expression on her face—like a dog that has been repeatedly kicked by its master—slices my chest wide open. She grips my arm, her fingernails digging into my skin, and rests her head against my chest. I won’t lie. It feels so good to finally have her in my arms, leaning on me, letting me help her, protect her. Be there for her.

One day, maybe, even love her.

“You’re safe,” I murmur, my lips in her hair. “You’re safe with me.”

Her grip eases as though my words have gotten through to her and she believes them. I’m giving her comfort and a sense of security, and she’s taking it. Right now, I’m making a goddamn difference, at least to her.

“I’m here, Millie. If you need me, I’m right here.”

She leans back, her eyes finally meeting mine. It’s then I see it bubbling to the surface in her dark mocha irises: trust. What just happened with Tanner has made her realize I’m someone she can confide in.

She sighs. “I need a drink, and I don’t mean coffee.”

I smile at her unguarded moment of honesty. It shows me a glimpse of the girl I once knew and fell for. What’s more, she’s noticed me. At long last. When she needed me, I was here.

I capture her hand, and when she doesn’t pull away, a warm glow sweeps through my chest. “I know just the place.”

Chapter 11

Ciaran

I take Millie to a small, intimate bar with dim lights, cozy booths, soft music, and I order us both a whiskey. After the server brings our drinks over, I sip mine while I wait for Millie to talk.

“I don’t know how he found me,” she murmurs, almost to herself, as she picks at a scratch on the mahogany table.

“Were you on your way home? Your shift finished a while ago, right?”

She lifts her chin. Her eyes are huge, her skin even paler than usual. “I’d been to meet my parents. When I married Tanner, we grew apart. Tonight was a reconciliation of sorts, and it went so well. I was walking to the subway when he appeared out of nowhere.” She lets out a breath and presses her fingers to her mouth, her expression tired and resigned. “I can’t stay here now. I’m sorry, what with everything you did to get me the job and all, but…” Her voice trails off.

“You’re going nowhere.”

She ignores me, choosing instead to stare out the window where dusk has fallen. I fixate on her reflection. Domestic violence isn’t my department, but I’ve seen enough to recognize the despair and utter desperation in her eyes, how wary she is to new situations or experiences, her nervousness, the manner in which she flinches from physical touch, the downturn to her mouth, and the furrow between her brows.

Breaking my promise never to ask her because, damn it, I need to know, I say, “Tell me what he did to you. I can help you. I’ll keep you safe.”

She slowly turns her head. “Why would you do that? You don’t even know me anymore.”

I almost blurt out every last detail of how I feel about her, but at the last moment I manage to stop myself. To lay myself bare would be one big fucking mistake. The timing is all wrong. I long to hold her, to soothe and comfort her. Christ, I want her every broken piece, because I know I can put her back together again. But I have to move slowly. This isn’t about me, my wants, my needs. It’s all about her.

I cover her hand with mine and give it a gentle squeeze before drawing back. “I know you’re hurting, I know who’s responsible, and I know I can help fix that.” I shrug, then hit her with a broad grin. “What can I say? I’m an all-American hero. New York’s finest, baby.”

She laughs—a real, honest-to-goodness laugh that chases away the pain scoring her face, if only for a few seconds. “Yes, you are.”

She casts her eyes downward and picks at the skin around her thumbnail. I let the silence linger. It hovers there until, eventually, she sits a little straighter.

“For a long time, I didn’t realize anything was wrong. In fact, on the odd occasion one of Tanner’s colleagues would make a joke about him keeping me under lock and key, I’d get quite defensive. I wasn’t under Tanner’s control. I was my own woman.” She gives a short, bitter laugh. “It’s like a constant state of denial mixed with a nagging feeling you’re going insane. Tanner is a complete narcissist, which I could have understood more if he’d been successful. But because his ego couldn’t handle failure, his lack of a big football career became my fault.

“In hindsight, I realize I kind of shut down—went numb. I would bolster myself with daily ‘positive thinking’ mantras that everything was normal and okay. I would spend most of my day justifying myself to him: where I was going, what I was doing, who I spoke to, who spoke to me. It was worse when he couldn’t keep an eye on me twenty-four seven because he had to work. To make up for that, he’d force me to account for every second of every day.”

She swallows the remains of her whiskey, and I immediately call for another round for us both. A horrible sick feeling churns in my stomach the more she shares her truth.

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