Page 31 of Dangerous Devotion

“Let me take you someplace for the weekend. We can get away, give you some time to process this and spend some time alone together away from the business,” he offers.

“I’m no expert, but I hear there’s no leaving the business behind,” I say. “It’s not like we could go to the beach for a weekend while you take a break from organized crime.”

“That isn’t how it works with any job,” he says reasonably. So infuriatingly reasonable that I grit my teeth. “You don’t stop being a nursing student when you go out of town do you?”

“I don’t go out of town. That kind of activity requires a certain disposable income I don’t have, Jack,” I say primly. I’m pissed, but mainly I’m scared out of my mind. I can still feel his hot blood slipping into my hands every time his heart pumped, recognize the ache in my shoulders and upper traps from the pressure I had to apply to the wound to stop it bleeding.

“Please,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t do this anymore. I don’t have it in me, Jack. I thought I could do anything to be with you, but it turns out I’m too weak and too scared to go on.”

I crumple into a chair, face in my hands. When I try to wipe the tears and mascara off my face, I’m convinced I can smell the rusty tang of his blood still clinging to my skin. The moan that comes out of me is barely human, a wail that sounds like an injured animal.

His aloof logic evaporates. He gets off the desk and goes to his knees beside my chair. He takes my hands in his, pulls them away from his face.

“I can keep you safe, Serena. I wouldn’t say that if I didn’t mean it. You know me, you know I love you. Nothing is worth losing you over, nothing,” he says.

His fingers feel cold when they wrap around mine. I look up, scan him for signs of shock. He doesn’t feel or look feverish. When I grip his wrist and concentrate, his pulse is steady. His lips and his fingernails are their normal color. He’s alert and doesn’t show any sign of confusion. I let out a breath, reassured that he isn’t going into shock.

His cool fingers trace my jaw and grip my chin. He sets his mouth on mine, kissing first my upper lip and then my lower lip. My lips tremble as I sway closer to him, my hands on the smooth skin of his bare shoulders. Warmth threads through me, coiling in my belly and heating my core. I nip at his lip, stroke his tongue with mine. I’m helpless, like I knew I’d be if I let him touch me again.

“Come home with me. Let me make this up to you, let me make you forget this night ever happened,” he says, rubbing his mouth over mine, the rough scrape of his stubble igniting my skin and making my nipples tighten.

I drag my lips from his with effort. It feels unnatural, and everything in me rebels against withdrawing from Jack. Because all I want is to let him devour me, wipe out my memory of fear and blood and replace it with closeness and connection, deep physical satisfaction.

I want to weep with frustration and grief because he’s right here, his mouth less than an inch from mine, the taste of his whiskey still on my tongue. I would beg, crawl, do anything to stay with him. Except put my child in the path of danger. My love for Jack made this baby, and I’ll protect him or her no matter what it costs me. Even if it costs me the only happiness I’ve ever known.

God, I’m going to miss him—I almost falter, almost change my mind because I quail at the thought. The raw need in my body, the love I have for him that will go unspoken, unfulfilled. I can’t give him that love, not without giving his rivals a shot at our baby as well. Never, the word reverberates up my spine like it was shouted from deep in my soul.

Whatever the cost, I remind myself.

I take another step back. Steadying myself with a hand on the back of the chair, I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Jack. I appreciate everything you’ve done to help me, and the time we shared,” I damn near choke on the words.

This is the last thing I want to do. But I have to make him believe it. Even though it will break my heart.

“What are you saying?” he says. “You want to leave? Never see me again?” His mouth hardens and he seems to realize that he’s shirtless, that the sutured cut pulls painfully when he moves. Still, he comes to me, takes me by the shoulders. “Let me change your mind. Give me a chance.”

I open my mouth but cannot find words to speak. This proud, powerful man begs me to give him another chance. He loves me, and no other man could ever love me the same way. My chest hollows out and a devastating mix of sadness and shame choke me.

Let him think I am spooked by his injury, that I can play in his world but when it gets real, I run off. Let him think me faithless, disloyal. Only don’t let him realize I’m pregnant. That is the only important thing, I remind myself. If he hates me, that’s probably better. The voice in my head screaming for me to defend myself, to explain, to tell him I love him—that voice is stupid and self-destructive and doesn’t get a vote.

I grab a water from the mini fridge and chug about half of it just to clear my throat enough to speak. “Leave your stitches alone even when they pull. Don’t overdo. Take Tylenol for pain and if it starts bleeding or opens up, see a doctor,” I recite as coolly as I can. “I’m sure you can get a ride from here, so I’m going to take off.”

“That’s it,” he says flatly, disbelief making his face look younger and vulnerable.

“I guess tell Foz I said thanks,” I say, and I hate myself so much that I dig my nails into my palm as I speak the words.

“Yeah, and what do I tell myself?” he says, bitterness creeping in.

“That I had a good time,” I say. I can’t quite make myself shrug even though I know it would drive home the callousness of what I say. My shoulders won’t cooperate. Like even my muscles and joints know this is bullshit and won’t participate.

I grab my keys and walk out, and I don’t let myself look back.

16

JACK

“What the fuck did I miss?” I demand.

Foz shifts his weight uncomfortably.

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